“Bella, I’m sure you don’t look a day older than thirty-five. Your skin feels smooth and young. Why do you let Hugh call you an old woman? Poor Bella, I’m afraid you’ve spoiled those two boys?”
Sylvie turned suddenly and imperiously upon the men, and Bella made her escape, not from the room, for she was too stirred, too full of an excited suspense, to bring herself to leave. From a far corner, near the window through which came the soft May wind, she watched them.
“Now, Pete,” said Sylvie, “it’s your turn. If I’m to learn the touch of the blind, I must have practice. What can I make of you! Come here. Why don’t you come?” She stamped her foot. “My, but you are badly trained. Really, Hugh, you ought to discipline him. Wait until I am your sister-in-law.”
Hugh started angrily. “Don’t joke about that!” he threatened in a harsh, sudden voice.
She turned toward him with quickness and bent her head sidelong as though listening intently for what else he might have to say. Her lips were set close and narrow. She had listened to him like this, almost breathlessly, ever since her sudden faintness, listened as though she would draw his very soul in through her ears.
He too flushed. “It’s life and death to me, Sylvie,” he pleaded.
“Life and death—life or death,” she repeated strangely. She stood, as if turning the speech over in her mind, then gave her head a quick little shake like a diver coming to the surface of deep water, and moved a step toward Pete. “Are you coming, boy, or not? I want to feel your face.”
“Do as she says,” Hugh commanded harshly, and Pete came slowly to her and stood with his hands locked behind him, bending over the little figure. She put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a shake, and smiled.
“Such a big, strong boy! Where’s your face?” It winced and paled under her touch. His eyes fell, shifted, could not meet Hugh’s, who watched with unsteady breathing and white lips.
“Your face is as smooth as a girl’s, Pete. What a wide, low forehead and crisp, short hair; it ripples back from your temples. You must be a pretty boy! A neat nose and a round, hard chin and—oh, Pete, Pete! I believe you have a dimple. How absurd! A great, long dimple like a slit in your right cheek. Why do you blink your eyes so? They’re long eyes, with thick, short lashes. What a strong, round neck! I think I like your face.”