CHAPTER XXXI.

At last Sylvia drew herself out of Neville’s arms, and the two stood and gazed at each other. Then Neville started and crimsoned. He had not actually seen her yet; in that first rush they had scarcely looked at each other. And now——Well, he had been picturing to himself the Sylvia he remembered, the slim girl with girlish form and face and ways, and tricks of speech. That was the Sylvia he had left and he had expected to see. And, instead, here before him was a lovely, an exquisitely lovely woman, superbly dressed,…