Branscombe is stupidly silent; indeed, it hardly occurs to him that speech is necessary. He is gazing earnestly, tenderly, at the small face beside him,—
"A face o'er which a thousand shadows go."
The small face, perhaps, objects to this minute scrutiny, because presently it raises itself, and says, coquettishly,—
"How silent you are! What are you thinking of?"
"Of you," says Dorian, simply. "What a foolish question! You are a perfect picture in that black gown, with your baby arms and neck."
"Anything else?" asks Miss Broughton, demurely.
"Yes. It also seems to me that you cannot be more than fifteen. You look such a little thing, and so young."
"But I'm not young," says Georgie, hastily. "I am quite old. I wish you would remember I am nearly nineteen."
"Quite a Noah's Ark sort of person,—a fossil of the pre-Adamite period. How I envy you! You are, indeed, unique in your way. Don't be angry with me because I said you looked young; and don't wish to be old. There is no candor so hateful, no truth so unpleasing, as age."
"How do you know?" demands she, saucily, sweetly, half touched by his tone. "You are not yet a Methuselah." Then, "Do you know your brother has come at last? He is very late, isn't he?"