Thus challenged, I bring my eyes to hers; there is something dazzling about them that always makes it hard to see her face, except when she is looking away; my eyes wander not from hers, until she does look away—out the window—and I suddenly see something familiar in the face.
“Is there much shooting about here?” I ask, abruptly, meaning game.
“Yes, there is a terrible deal. Why, my cousin, Kirk Bruce, was only eighteen when he shot and killed another gen’leman at school.”
“Dear me, I didn’t mean men,” I say. “I meant quail and partridges. And I thought I had seen you yesterday with a shot-gun down in that green bottom by the Tennessee. It might have been men, though; for your shot whistled about the ears of my friend, Mr. Coe.”
“I wondered you didn’t remember me when you got upon the train,” answers Jeanie. “Where is Mr. Coe?”
“He stayed behind at Sheffield,” I say. “Do you belong to the ‘Pirates of Penzance’?”
“Mercy, no—they’re city people from Knoxville—we’ve only spent two winters there getting our education in music.”
“Is Knoxville a musical city?”
“The advantages there are considered exceptional. We were at the Convent of Sacré-Cœur.”
“At the convent?” I ask.