“You hardly look the poet, Mr. Burnett—you don’t mind my saying so?” she laughed. “And if you do dream, you do it with your eyes very wide open.”
Mr. Burnett’s brows were tangled in bewilderment. “I’m really not much given to dreaming. I’m rather busy, you know.”
“It’s splendid of you. You’ve worked long?”
“Er—yes—since I left college,” he said, the tangle in his brows suddenly unraveling. A smile now illuminated his rather whimsical eyes. Miss Darrow found herself laughing frankly into them.
“Art is long—you must be at least—thirty.”
“Less,” he corrected. “Youth is my compensation for not being a lawyer—or a broker.”
She was conscious of the personal note in their conversation, but she made no effort to avoid it. This genius of less than thirty gave every token of sanity and good fellowship.
“Who is Agatha?” she asked suddenly.
“A—er—a friend of mine in Paris.”
“Oh!” she said, in confusion.