“Delicious!” she cried.
“I suppose that’s the youngest thing that’s been said to-night,” he admitted, rueful as a boy, but wholly amused. He looked up at her, and again he seemed to see her anew, alight with an intensity that flashed in her large eyes, that seemed reflected in the glitter of her slow-waving black fan.
“You are the oldest, youngest ever born,” she said, with a gentle caress of voice that caused his smile to fade and held his eyes steady.
“What a way you have with words!” he said. “You make them really mean things. You get hold of one—”
“With words,” she helped him.
“Oh, no, no; not only that! But the way you do it,” he said, with his oldest look on his young face. “You get nearer with them. Most only get away.”
He alarmed her and reassured her in a breath. “Words?” she thought, remembering Julia’s eyes. Yes, words were her weapons, and that which was back of them: the power of mentality. But how much did that count for now?
“You don’t like people, Tony,” she told him.
He nodded. “I know. They’re such everlasting discords. They deafen me. I suppose it’s infernally selfish, but I can’t think of you as an individual, Florence. You’re just myself.”
They were too intent now, both of them, for a change of color.