It was at this moment that the reflection of the stranger’s face joined itself in the little mirror, as she made a little movement away from the Old Welsh dresser in the corner, to that of his own. She looked at the spurious Heppelwhite. Their eyes met in the hospitable glass. Gumbril smiled. The corners of the stranger’s wide mouth seemed faintly to move; like petals of the magnolia, her eyelids came slowly down over her slanting eyes. Gumbril turned from the reflection to the reality.
“If you want to say Beaver,” he said, “you may.”
The Complete Man had made his first speech.
“I want to say nothing,” said the stranger. She spoke with a charming precision and distinctness, lingering with a pretty emphasis on the n of nothing. “N—n—nothing”—it sounded rather final. She turned away, she moved on.
But the Complete Man was not one to be put off by a mere ultimatum. “There,” he said, falling into step with her, “now I’ve had it—the deserved snub. Honour is saved, prestige duly upheld. Now we can get on with our conversation.”
The Mild and Melancholy one stood by, gasping with astonished admiration.
“You are v—very impertinent,” said the stranger, smiling and looking up from under the magnolia petals.
“It is in my character,” said the Complete Man. “You mustn’t blame me. One cannot escape from one’s heredity; that’s one’s share of original sin.”
“There is always grace,” said the stranger.
Gumbril caressed his beard. “True,” he replied.