The dark small silken head shook. “No. You don’t like me.”
“I do—I do. Please tell me everything you feel like telling; I’d like awfully to help you, to understand, to listen to you. You see, you’ve been so much with Hugh, I haven’t had a chance to know you as he does. And I guess—well—maybe I’m sort of shy.”
She lifted her head at that, took his stroking hand and held it in both of hers under her chin, as a little girl holds her pet kitten for the pleasure of its warmth. “You must get over being shy with me, Pete. We both love Hugh; we both admire him so. I’d so love to talk to you about him—”
“Then do, Sylvie.”
“I’ve never seen him,” she sighed, “and you can see him all day long, Pete; will you try your best now to describe Hugh to me—every bit of him? Tell me the color of his eyes and the shape of his face and—everything. Tell me all you remember about him always.”
“I—I’m no good at that, Sylvie. A fellow you see all day long—why, you don’t know what he looks like, ‘specially if he’s your own brother.”
“Well, you certainly know the color of his eyes.”
“He has hazel eyes—I think you’d call them—”
“Yes?” she drank in his words eagerly, pressing his hand tighter in her excitement. “Go on. If only you were a girl, now, you’d do this so much better.”
“I—I—but I don’t know what else to say, Sylvie. He is very strong.”