Since her widowhood, so she now reminded herself remorsefully, Chester
had been extraordinarily good to her, and his devotion had touched her
because it was expressed in actions rather than in words, for he was also
the unusual type of man, seldom a romantic type, who scorns, however much
in love, to take advantage of a fiduciary position to strengthen his own.
The fact that he was her trustee brought them into frequent conflict. Too
often Bill was the candid friend instead of the devoted lover. Their only
real quarrel--if quarrel it could be called--had been, as we know, over
the purchase of her string of pearls. But time, or so Sylvia confidently
believed, had proved her to have been right, for her "investment," as she
always called it to Bill Chester, had improved in value.
But though she had been right in that comparatively trifling matter, she
knew that Chester would certainly disapprove of the kind of life--the
idle, purposeless, frivolous life--she was now leading.
Looking out over the lake, which, as it was an exceedingly hot, fine day,
was already crowded with boats, Sylvia almost made up her mind to go back
into Paris for two or three days.
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