"His hair is yellow, his eyes are blue, and he smiles the same way you do."
He felt the lump rise and swell in his throat.
"If you stood before a mirror you would see him. But there the resemblance ends."
"You say that sadly. Why?"
"Did I? Well, perhaps I was thinking strongly, too."
"Is he a man who does things?" a note of strained curiosity in his tones. Ten years!
"In what way do you mean?"
"Does he work in the world, does he invent, build, finance?"
Mayhap her eyes deceived her, but the tan on his face seemed less brown than yellow.
"No; Mr. Ellison is a collector of paintings, of rugs, of rare old books and china. He's a bit detached, as dreamers usually are. He has written a book of exquisite verses.… You are smiling," she broke off suddenly, her eyes filling with cold lights.