“Do you”—I could see the pulse of her long throat and the bushes shake behind with her agitation—“do you know Ravenutzi?”
“I know him.”
“Is he well? How does he look? Is he happy?” Impossible to conceal now what the question meant to her.
“He is well. As to his looks—sometimes he looks younger, sometimes older. His hair, I think, is not so gray.”
“Not so gray?”
“I think he dyes it.” I do not know why I should have said this, except as I saw that no detail of him was too small to seem trivial to her.
“Oh!” she said, startled, looking at me queerly. “Oh!” she gave a short laugh, “you think he dyes it. Is he happy?”
I considered.
“You are one of the Far-Folk, I believe, and though I am prisoner, the Outliers have been friends to me. I am not sure I ought to answer you.”
She let go of the bushes and came a step nearer in her anxiety.