A cold chill ran down his spine at that familiar form of address.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Man. It belongs to bobbed hair and empress gowns and art serge ... and soul.”
She laughed quietly; she hadn’t laughed for a long time.
“You used to like me calling you Man—in the days of our spiritual freedom, when deep called to deep—oh, gee! I forget the mush! And only two days ago I was word-perfect—knew every line.”
Gordon rivetted his shocked gaze upon her.
“I don’t understand ... knew your lines? What do you mean?”
She was examining the cigarette between her fingers. He had a dreadful foreboding that a revelation was imminent.
“I mean all that stuff we used to talk—the O Man! stuff and the O Woman! stuff. And about our being on planes, and affinities of souls. My, but I had a bad time trying not to go to sleep. You’re different now—I kinder like you this way. I’m strong for common sense and nature. Man! I’ve been the making of you.”
“The breaking of me, you mean,” he snapped, the old grievance revived. “If you hadn’t come here, I could have explained everything to Diana—Miss Ford.”