CHAPTER XVIII 

BLAND MAKES A SACRIFICE 

Sylvia was sitting by the hearth in Ethel West's drawing-room, her neatly shod feet on the fender, her low chair on the fleecy rug, and she made a very dainty and attractive picture. She felt the cold and hated discomfort of any kind, though it was characteristic of her that she generally succeeded in avoiding it. Ethel sat near by, watching her with calmly curious eyes, for Sylvia was looking pensive. Mrs. Lansing was talking to Stephen West on the opposite side of the large room. 

"How is Edgar getting on?" Sylvia asked. "I suppose you hear from him now and then." 

Ethel guessed where the question led and responded with blunt directness. 

"Doesn't George write to you?" 

"Not often. Herbert has just got a letter, but there was very little information in it; George is not a brilliant correspondent. I thought Edgar might have written by the same mail." 

"As it happens, he did," said Ethel. "He describes the cold as fierce, and gives some interesting details of his sensations when the warmth first comes back to his half-frozen hands or limbs; then he adds a vivid account of a blizzard that George and he nearly got lost in." 

"Things of that kind make an impression on a new-comer," Sylvia languidly remarked. "One gets used to them after a while. Did he say anything else?" 

"There was an enthusiastic description of a girl he has met; he declares she's a paragon. This, of course, is nothing new, but it's a little astonishing that he doesn't seem to contemplate making love to her in his usual haphazard manner. She seems to have inspired him with genuine respect." 
Who was she with?
Sylvia