“Oh, yes! He's got to do with everything—every little thing. Nothing can happen—”
“Yes,” he said hastily, “one of the two sparrows can't be struck to the ground—you are thinking of that.” The habitual playful smile faded on the kindly lips under the martial moustache. “Ah, you remember what you have been told—as a child—on Sundays.”
“Yes, I do remember.” She sank into the chair again. “It was the only decent bit of time I ever had when I was a kid, with our landlady's two girls, you know.”
“I wonder, Lena,” Heyst said, with a return to his urbane playfulness, “whether you are just a little child, or whether you represent something as old as the world.”
She surprised Heyst by saying dreamily:
“Well—and what about you?”
“I? I date later—much later. I can't call myself a child, but I am so recent that I may call myself a man of the last hour—or is it the hour before last? I have been out of it so long that I am not certain how far the hands of the clock have moved since—since—”
He glanced at the portrait of his father, exactly above the head of the girl, as if it were ignoring her in its painted austerity of feeling. He did not finish the sentence; but he did not remain silent for long.
“Only what must be avoided are fallacious inferences, my dear Lena—especially at this hour.”
“Now you are making fun of me again,” she said without looking up.