"What kind of a day is it, Winnie?"
"As if you didn't know! You've been told, I'm sure, twenty times."
"What does it matter what other people say? I want to get at the day through you."
"It's bright and sunny—a perfect day of early summer."
"What things are out?"
"The may and the laburnum and the lilac——"
"And the wistaria?"
"Yes, the wistaria."
"It's forty years ago, dear, and your voice is just the same. And to me you have always been the same. I can see you as you sit there, with your dear, sensitive face, the creamy cheek, in which the blood comes and goes—oh, Heavens, so different from the blowsy, hard-featured girls nowadays, who could not blush if—well—well——I know 'em, although I'm blind—I'm Argus, you know, dear. Yes, I can see you, with your soft, brown eyes and pale brown hair waved over your pure brow. There is a fascinating little kink on the left-hand side. Let me feel it."
She drew her head away, frightened. Then suddenly she remembered, with a pang of thankfulness, that the queer little kink had defied the years, though the pale brown hair was white. She guided his hand and he felt the kink, and he laughed in his old, exultant way.