'That you're a genius. She can't make out why you've been burying yourself, working for a little country paper.'
Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for a less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls; speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what anybody thought about anybody.
Still—it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye; glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body.
'So she says I'm a genius, eh! Well, maybe it's true. Maybe I am. I'm something. Or there's something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on fire with it. I've done a few things. I put on Iolanthe here. When I was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it—drilled 'em——'
'I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.'
'I'll do something else one of these days.'
'I'm sure you will,' she murmured politely.
It was going none too well. She wasn't really interested. He hadn't touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better.
'That's an awfully pretty brooch,' he ventured.
She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold.