“Dark? Tall?”
“Very like you, Gyp. A little—a little”—he did not know how to describe that difference—“a little more foreign-looking perhaps. One of her grandmothers was Italian, you know.”
“How did you come to love her? Suddenly?”
“As suddenly as”—he drew his hand away and laid it on the veranda rail—“as that sun came on my hand.”
Gyp said quietly, as if to herself:
“Yes; I don't think I understand that—yet.”
Winton drew breath through his teeth with a subdued hiss.
“Did she love you at first sight, too?”
He blew out a long puff of smoke.
“One easily believes what one wants to—but I think she did. She used to say so.”