He bent nearer to the white hands. “Now tell me about you.”
“That would take too long. And if you find out all [141] ]there is to know to-night, you won’t want to see me again.”
“Won’t I, though! Besides—I could never find out all there is to know about you.”
They danced. He was not a good dancer but as his arm went round her and his dark head bent to her glinting one, she felt herself completely encompassed. His bigness, his nearness, gave her a swift sense of helplessness that frankly frightened her. The reins of the future must be held in her cool hands, not in his.
“I’m going to guess your age,” she announced when they were once more at opposite sides of the table, “if you’ll promise not to guess mine.”
“I don’t give a darn how old you are.”
“Oh, I’m not as old as all that. But you—you’re twenty-five.”
“Next month. Bet, at that, I’m older than you.”
“You are,” she lied, without a quiver.
“But you’re the sort of woman who’ll always be young—even when you’re wrinkled and gray. It’s your coloring,” he went on, promptly contradicting himself. “That wonderful white skin—I’ve never seen skin so white—and the sheen of your hair and those eyes that make a fellow sort of—sort of want to jump in.”