"Well, I won't tell them if you don't
want me to," she said. She went out, without another word, closing the
door behind her. Sylvia locked it, and went on with her wild packing.
When she came to the yellow chiffon she rolled it up tightly and
jammed it into a corner of her trunk; but the instant afterward she
snatched it out and thrust it fiercely into the fire. The light fabric
caught at once, the flames leaped up, filling the room with a roaring
heat and flare, which almost as quickly died down to blackened
silence.
Sylvia faced that instant of red glare with a grimly set jaw and a
deeply flushed face. It did not look at all like her own face.
At a quarter of eight the room was cleared, the trunk strapped and
locked, and Sylvia stood dressed for the street, gloved, veiled, and
furred. Under her veil her face showed still very flushed. She took up
her small handbag and her umbrella and opened the door with caution.
A faint clatter of dishes and a hum of laughing talk came up to her
ears. Dinner was evidently in full swing. She stepped out and went
noiselessly down the stairs. On the bottom step, close to the
dining-room door, her umbrella-tip caught in the balustrade and fell
with a loud clatter on the bare polished floor of the hall. Sylvia
shrank into herself and waited an instant with suspended breath for
the pause in the chatter and laughter which it seemed must follow.
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