I was as vain of her favour as any lovelorn suitor whose lady had honoured him , not knowing , as I came to know later , the reason for it . Although Miss Sylvia had an unlimited capacity for receiving confidences , she never gave any . We were all sure that there must be some romance in her life , but our efforts to discover it were unsuccessful . Miss Sylvia parried tentative questions so skilfully that we knew she had something to defend . But one evening , when I had known her a month , as time is reckoned , and long years as affection and understanding are computed , she told me her story -- at least , what there was to tell of it . The last chapter was missing . We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset . Most of the hotel people had gone for a harbour sail ; a few forlorn mortals prowled about the grounds and eyed our corner wistfully , but by the sign of the heliotrope shawl knew it was not for them . I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia . In my own excuse I must allege that she tempted me to do it . I did not go around with manuscripts under my arm , inflicting them on defenceless females . But Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler , and moreover , that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and perpetrated a short story . Nothing would do but that I read it to her . It was a rather sad little story . The hero loved the heroine , and she loved him . There was no reason why he should not love her , but there was a reason why he could not marry her . When he found that he loved her he knew that he must go away . But might he not , at least , tell her his love ? Might he not , at least , find out for his consolation if she cared for him ? There was a struggle ; he won , and went away without a word , believing it to be the more manly course .
When I began to read Miss XXXXX was knitting , a pale green something this time , of the tender hue of young leaves in May .
Sylvia course evening harbour hero month morning questions scribbler years