“Like what all the poets say—brown nymph and faun.”
“No. I can't be a nymph any more. Too old——Erik, am I old? Am I faded and small-towny?”
“Why, you're the youngest——Your eyes are like a girl's. They're so—well, I mean, like you believed everything. Even if you do teach me, I feel a thousand years older than you, instead of maybe a year younger.”
“Four or five years younger!”
“Anyway, your eyes are so innocent and your cheeks so soft——Damn it, it makes me want to cry, somehow, you're so defenseless; and I want to protect you and——There's nothing to protect you against!”
“Am I young? Am I? Honestly? Truly?” She betrayed for a moment the childish, mock-imploring tone that comes into the voice of the most serious woman when an agreeable man treats her as a girl; the childish tone and childish pursed-up lips and shy lift of the cheek.
“Yes, you are!”
“You're dear to believe it, Will—ERIK!”
“Will you play with me? A lot?”
“Perhaps.”