“That is old enough,” she smiled, archly.
“Stephanie,” he asked, cautiously, “how old are you, exactly?”
“I will be twenty-one in April,” she answered.
“Have your parents been very strict with you?”
She shook her head dreamily. “No; what makes you ask? They haven’t paid very much attention to me. They’ve always liked Lucille and Gilbert and Ormond best.” Her voice had a plaintive, neglected ring. It was the voice she used in her best scenes on the stage.
“Don’t they realize that you are very talented?”
“I think perhaps my mother feels that I may have some ability. My father doesn’t, I’m sure. Why?”
She lifted those languorous, plaintive eyes.
“Why, Stephanie, if you want to know, I think you’re wonderful. I thought so the other night when you were looking at those jades. It all came over me. You are an artist, truly, and I have been so busy I have scarcely seen it. Tell me one thing.”
“Yes.”