The situation was, however, delightful: it was charming to sit and look
at Sylvia, her portfolio in her lap, pen in hand, and her blue eyes
turned toward me, anxiously waiting for me to speak; it was so
enchanting that my mind could with difficulty be kept to the work in
hand. But it would not do to keep Sylvia waiting. Her pen began to tap
impatiently upon the paper, and I went on. We had written a page or two
when she interrupted me.
"It seems to me," she said, "that if Tomaso really starts for Naples it
will be a good while before we get to the end of the story. So far as I
am concerned, you know, I would like the story just as long as you
choose to make it; but we haven't very much time, and it would be a
dreadful disappointment to me if I should have to go away before the
story is ended."
"Why do you feel in a hurry?" I asked. "If we do not finish this
morning, cannot I come to you to-morrow?"
"Oh, no, indeed," she answered. "It's only by the merest chance, you
know, that I am writing for you this morning, and I couldn't do it
again. That would be impossible. In fact, I want to get through before
the boat comes back. Not that I should mind mother, for she knows that I
used to write for you, and I could easily explain how I came to be doing
it now; and I should not care about Uncle or Mr.
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