Etta looked at her in a puzzled way. "How queer you talk! Not a bit like yourself. You sound so much older. . . . And your eyes—they don't look natural at all."
Indeed they looked supernatural. The last trace of gray was gone. They were of the purest, deepest violet, luminous, mysterious, with that awe-inspiring expression of utter aloneness. But as Etta spoke the expression changed. The gray came back and with it a glance of irony. Said she:
"Oh—nonsense! I'm all right."
"I didn't mind nearly as much as I thought I would. Yes, I'll get used to it."
"You mustn't," said Susan.
"But I've got to."
"We've got to do it, but we haven't got to get used to it," replied Susan.
Etta was still puzzling at this when the dinner now came—a fine, thick broiled steak, the best steak Susan had ever seen, and the best food Etta had ever seen.
They had happened upon one of those famous Cincinnati chop houses where in plain surroundings the highest quality of plain food is served. "You are hungry, aren't you, Lorna?" said Etta.
"Yes—I'm hungry," declared Susan. "Cut it—quick."