She had spoken quietly enough, but there was an undertone of passion in her words.
“That doesn’t sound reasonable,” he expostulated. For she seemed, in her present mood and posture, far removed from the child.
“It isn’t,” he heard her answering. “But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“How old are you?” he asked with a frankness sired by impatience.
“I’m nineteen—almost twenty,” she told him, with her habitual impersonal candor.
“Then that makes it more unreasonable than ever,” he proclaimed with a touch of triumph.
“All my life has been unreasonable.”
“But——” he began, and broke off. Still again their glances had met and locked, and he seemed to drink courage from the quietness of her eyes. “Why couldn’t I see you?”
“See me?” she echoed.
“Without them knowing it,” he explained, paling under his tan.