She had never decided to which of the five thousand shades of green Felix Harrison’s eyes belonged; they were certainly green; one of the English poets had green eyes, she wondered if they were like Felix Harrison’s. To-night they glittered as if they were no color at all. This face beside her was a spiritualized face; a strong mouth as sweet as a woman’s, a round benevolent chin; a low, square forehead; hair as light as her own; his side face as he turned at least five years younger than the full face; she had often laughed at his queer fashion of growing old and growing young. At times, in the years when they were more together than of late, he had changed so greatly that, after not having seen him for several days she had passed him in the street without recognition; these times had been in those indignant times after she had refused him; that they were more than indignant times to him she was made painfully aware by these changes in his rugged face.
“I have been thinking over those foolish times,” she said, breaking the silence. “I am glad that you came in to-night; I am in a mood for confessing my wrong-doings; I have said many quick words; you know you always had the talent for irritating me.”
“Yes, I always worried you.”
“You did not intend to,” she said hastily, watching the movement of his lips; “we did not understand, that is all. It takes longer than a summer and a winter for heart to answer to heart.”
“We have known each other many summers and many winters.”
“And now we are old, sensible, hard-working people; having given up all nonsense we are discovering the sense there is in sense.”
He turned his face with a listening look in his eyes.
“Did not some one come in? Shall we be disturbed?”
“Not unless we wish to be. It is only Mr. Hammerton, he is a great friend of father’s. He renews his youth in him.”
“Is he not your friend?”