Mrs. Gonzola came in; she, too, took on a new significance; a woman of fifty, small, sinuous, with pale eyelids, forehead, lips; the process of Time had almost washed out the human face which had been, even at its best, but a soft water-color.
Tonight Floyd seemed to see within that white Image. Past struggles, like smothered flames, flashed up again momentarily. Her English was perfect—so academic it sounded foreign; born in New York, taught by professors, she spoke like one. She had tried to bring Julie up that way, but changed conditions were too strong for her.
“Floyd, I am in a terrible dilemma. Martin has asked Julie to marry him.”
“Yes, I know.”
She tried to draw away her hands, but Floyd held them fast.
“Your decision means everything to me.” Floyd put his arm around her; he had known her all his life. She clung to him; there were tears in her voice, but her eyes were dry.
“Julie told you of our ancestry?”
“Yes.”
“Does it make any difference?”
“Why should it?”