“Do I alarm you?” she challenged him.
“No,” he admitted. “It’s very odd, but you don’t.”
“What a blessing! Shy people—and I am one—usually have the most devastating effect on other shy people. But you’ll love Madame Claire. She looks on the world from a kind of Olympus.”
“Yet most of us dread growing old,” he remarked.
“Yes. Isn’t it ridiculous? But I don’t. There are times when I envy her her age, and her … imperviousness. What a word!”
“It’s temperamental, that sort of thing. It’s the people who are always seeking gayety that dread old age most. Being Scotch I like grayness, and austere hills, and quiet and mystery. All old things.”
Chip was surprised at the ease with which he could talk about himself. He felt half apologetic and looked at Judy as if to say, “Forgive me, but it must be some spell that you have cast upon me.…” A look passed between them then that was to both of them an unforgettable thing.
Their words had meant nothing, but they were mutually aware of a bond—a thing as fine as gossamer, and as strong as London Bridge. Judy was conscious of a queer little electric thrill that she felt to the very tips of her fingers. Their look had so plainly said:
“You and I.… We are going to be something to each other. What will that something be?”
To cover the nakedness of that question that each was aware of in the mind of the other, Judy turned away her head.