"I do. Don't you?" His glance roved to the ample beauty beside John Benham. "It looks exactly like a rope of flax."
"A rope suggests a hanging to me," she rejoined grimly.
He laughed, and she noticed that his eyes were brimming over with humour. Yes, they were extraordinary eyes, and they made one feel sympathetic and friendly. The man had a quality, she couldn't deny it.
"We don't hang any longer," he replied.
"Oh, yes, we do sometimes—without the law."
The blue sparkles in his eyes contracted to points of light. She had at last, by arresting his wandering attention, succeeded in making him look at her.
"I wonder what you mean," he mused aloud, and added frankly, "I've never seen you before, have I?"
"Have I?" she mimicked gaily. "Wouldn't you remember me? Or are all gray-haired women alike to you?"
His gaze travelled to her hair. "I didn't mean it that way. Of course I should have remembered." He spoiled this by adding: "I never forget a face," and continued before she could answer, "I don't know whether your hair is gray or only powdered a little; but you are as young as—as summer."
"Or as your political party."