“You’ve the strangest eyes,” he said suddenly. “Do you know what they’re the color of?”
“My father used to say they were like a dog’s,” she answered, feeling unable to drop them and yet uneasy under his unflinching gaze.
“They’re the color of sherry—exactly the same.”
“I won’t let you see them any more if that’s the best you can say of them,” she said, dropping them.
“I could say they were the color of beer,” he answered, “but I thought sherry sounded better.”
“Beer!” she exclaimed, averting not only her eyes, but her face. “That’s an insult.”
“Well, then, I’ll only say in the simplest way what I think. I’m not the kind of man who makes fine speeches—they’re the most beautiful eyes in the world.”
“That’s the worst of all,” she answered, extremely confused and not made more comfortable by the thought that she had brought it on herself. “Let’s leave my eyes out of the question.”
“All right, I’ll not speak of them again. But I’ll want to see them now and then.”
He saw her color mounting, and in the joy of her close proximity, loitering arm in arm up the sordid street, he laughed again in his happiness and said: