“You may be right,” her companion shrugged. “I barely met him once. I took him to be the type most women would fall for.”
“You haven’t a very high opinion of us, I’m afraid, as a sex, Mr. Stewart.”
“You mustn’t let my sweeping remarks lead you astray,” he said, his eyes coolly mirthful, and a new look of cynicism about his mouth.
“You mean you’re willing to allow there might be exceptions?” It wasn’t, perhaps, entirely clear, but that was Elsa’s way.
“Oh, yes, of course,” he laughed.
“That would give us common ground to meet on, wouldn’t it?”
“Then you glory in being an exception?” He seemed eager to play up to her mood—almost inspired to a sort of transient cleverness.
“Oh, naturally,” replied Elsa, her eyes drooping as she gazed off past him at nothing at all. “Just the way Tinker Bell gloried in being an ‘abandoned little creature.’ One lives and learns. Doesn’t one?”
“Yes.” After all, the plain monosyllable held still a place in his soul.
“I suppose you’re an exception, too,” she said, “if the subject isn’t becoming too vague with handling.”