“You think you influenced him?”
“Don’t you think I did?”
“Perhaps so. There’s a sympathetic link of youth between you. You are gloriously young, both of you, little daughter. And youth turns naturally to youth, though I’m afraid old age doesn’t always turn naturally to old age.”
“What do you know about old age, Madre? You haven’t a gray hair.”
She spoke with anxious encouragement.
“It’s true. My hair declines to get gray.”
“I don’t believe you’ll ever be gray.”
“Probably not. But there’s another grayness—Life behind one instead of before; the emotional—”
She stopped herself. This was not for Vere.
“They’re close in,” she said, looking out of the window.