“It seems so to me,” persisted Elisabeth, regarding her with judicial eyes. “Somehow you convey such an impression of youth. You always remind me of spring. You are so slim and straight and vital—like a young sapling. However, perhaps Mr. Trent also has the faculty of youth. Youth isn't a matter of years, after all,” she added contemplatively.
“Now go on,” she commanded, after a moment. “Tell me what he looks like.”
Sara laughed and plunged into a description of Garth's personal appearance.
“And he's got queer eyes—tawny-coloured like a dog's,” she wound up, “with a quaint little patch of blue close to each of the pupils.”
Elisabeth leaned forward, and beneath the soft laces of her gown the rise and fall of her breast quickened perceptibly.
“Patches of blue?” she repeated.
“Yes—it sounds as though the colours had run, doesn't it?” pursued Sara, laughing a little. “But it's really rather effective.”
“And did you say his name was Trent—Garth Trent?” asked Elisabeth. She had gone a little grey about the mouth, and she moistened her lips with her tongue before speaking. There was a tone of incredulity in her voice.
“Yes. It's not a beautiful name, is it?” smiled Sara.
“It's rather a curious one,” agreed Elisabeth with an effort. “I'm really quite longing to meet this odd man with the patchwork eyes and the funny name.”