She took her place, at present a most inconspicuous one, on the back-cloth before which Michael's life was acted, towards which, when no action, so to speak, was taking place, his eyes naturally turned themselves.

His father and mother were there, Francis also and Aunt Barbara, and of course, larger than the rest, Hermann.

Now Sylvia was discernible, and, as the days went by and their meetings multiplied, she became bigger, walked into a nearer perspective.

It did not occur to Michael, rightly, to imagine himself at all in love with her, for he was not.

Only she had asserted herself on his consciousness.
Not yet had she begun to trouble him, and there was no sign, either external or intimate, in his mind that he was sickening with the splendid malady.