“You are not a bit alike, you two girls,” he exclaimed.
“Does it make any difference? There’s only one of a kind of anything in this world, flower or fruit or leaf or life,” Leigh added. “I found that out in painting. There’s only one Jo, and one Pryor Gaines, and one Jane Aydelot as I remember her back in Ohio; one anything or anybody.”
“And only one Leigh in all the world.”
It was not the usual bantering tone now, and there was something in the expression of Thaine’s handsome face; something looking out from his dark eyes that Leigh did 261 not see, because she was looking out at the lights and shadows of evening.
The sunset’s afterglow had thrown a splendor far up the sky. In its reflected light, softened by twilight shadows, Leigh made a picture herself that an artist might love to paint.
She turned away at his words, and a quiver of pain swept her face as Thaine leaned toward her eagerly.
“Oh, Leigh, I wasn’t joking. You are so unlike anybody else.” He broke off suddenly. But Leigh was herself again and, smiling frankly, she added, “Let’s count our blessings, then, and be thankful it’s no worse.”
Thaine rose at once.
“I must be going. It is after eight and I ought to be at Bennington’s now. I am so glad, I am so honored, to have your confidence. Won’t you keep telling me your plans, and if I can help you, will you let me do it?”
He had taken Leigh’s hand in good-by and held it as he put the question.