They all laughed, and after that it was easier to talk.
Major Stroud monopolized Noel, to whom he seemed to have taken a great fancy, and Judy found herself cut off from the other two, in a chair beside the sofa. For there is no room so small that a party of four cannot quite easily split up into twos.
Major Crosby looked much as Judy had expected him to look. That first sight of his face in the light from the car’s lamps was, she knew, one of those mind pictures that refuse to fade. She was uncertain about the color of his eyes, which now proved to be gray, and though they smiled and had a habit of smiling as the lines about them showed, there were other lines about the forehead that spoke of anxiety. His hair was of that fine and unreliable quality that abandons its owner early in life, and Chip was already a little thin about the top. His long legs under the rug displayed pointed knees, and he moved his thin, well-shaped hands nervously.
“If I can only put him at his ease with me!” thought Judy.
They talked commonplaces at first, and then, stretching out her hand, she said:
“May I see what you were reading?”
He picked up a finely bound book that lay beside him on the rug, and gave it to her.
“I don’t know why it is,” he said, smiling, “but one always feels slightly apologetic when discovered reading poetry.”
It was The Spirit of Man, and Judy was conscious of a feeling of satisfaction. They liked the same books, then.
“It’s a dear friend,” she said.