Grey eyes! They looked at him, and he remembered that years ago they had distinctly said: “Beaten!” They challenged him now—“Goth!” it was coming back to him; “Vandal!—nice, grey-eyed woman—ignorant woman!” he repeated to himself. “Your gloves,” he said involuntarily.
“You would think I never wore them,” she said, holding out her sunburnt, shapely hands for his inspection, “but I do.”
“You wore them then—and the wrong kind. That’s what I so disliked about you. You took that vase in gloved hands—dogskin-gloved hands—”
“Oh, it was you, was it?” said Elsie. “You looked so angry and I couldn’t explain—I knew it wasn’t a good vase—yes, I did—”
“Then why—”
“Forgive me one moment, there’s Dinah—”
“Oh,” said Marcus, “delightful—” thinking she had said Diana.
“No, Dinah—my dog—she’s got Marcus’s ball, she knows she mustn’t—please wait—if Peggy comes in, send her to her dinner, will you?”
“How? What shall I do?”
“Just say, ‘Marky’s got Peggy’s dinner’—and she’ll fly!”