“How do you like Graham?” he asked.
“Splendid,” was her reply. “He’s your type, Dick. He’s universal, like you, and he’s got the same world-marks branded on him—the Seven Seas, the books, and all the rest. He’s an artist, too, and pretty well all-around. And he’s good fun. Have you noticed his smile? It’s irresistible. It makes one want to smile with him.”
“And he’s got his serious scars, as well,” Dick nodded concurrence.
“Yes—right in the corners of the eyes, just after he has smiled, you’ll see them come. They’re not tired marks exactly, but rather the old eternal questions: Why? What for? What’s it worth? What’s it all about?”
And bringing up the rear of the cavalcade, Ernestine and Graham talked.
“Dick’s deep,” she was saying. “You don’t know him any too well. He’s dreadfully deep. I know him a little. Paula knows him a lot. But very few others ever get under the surface of him. He’s a real philosopher, and he has the control of a stoic or an Englishman, and he can play-act to fool the world.”
At the long hitching rails under the oaks, where the dismounting party gathered, Paula was in gales of laughter.
“Go on, go on,” she urged Dick, “more, more.”