"What's it got to do with you?" she said.
"I am Aston Rowant," said Matthew.
The Central Park, together with the universe in general, fell away and disappeared. Somewhere out of chaos was sounding a plaintive voice: "What is she like? Can't you tell me? Is she young or old?"
It seemed to have been going on for ages. She made one supreme gigantic effort, causing the Central Park to reappear, dimly, faintly, but it was there again. She was sitting on a seat. Matthew—Aston Rowant, whatever it was—was seated beside her.
"You've seen her? What is she like?"
"I can't tell you."
He was evidently very cross with her. It seemed so unkind of him.
"Why can't you tell me—or, why won't you tell me? Do you mean she's too awful for words?"
"No, certainly not—as a matter of fact—"
"Well, what?"