Page:The Other House (London, William Heinemann, 1896), Volume 1.djvu/65

Rh He felt with his lean, fine brown hand his spare, clean brown chin. "If I looked as old as I feel, dear girl, they'd have my portrait in the illustrated papers."

He had now drawn her down upon the nearest sofa, and while he sat sideways, grasping the wrist of which he remained in possession after she had liberated her fingers, she leaned back and took him in with a deep air of her own. "And yet it's not that you're exactly childish—or so extraordinarily fresh," she went on as if to puzzle out, for her satisfaction, her impression of him.

"'Fresh,' my dear girl!" He gave a little happy jeer; then he raised her wrist to his mouth and held it there as long as she would let him, looking at her hard. "That's the freshest thing I've ever been conscious of!" he exclaimed as she drew away her hand and folded her arms.

"You're worn, but you're not wasted," she brought out in her kind but considering way. "You're awfully well, you know."

"Yes, I'm awfully well, I know"—he spoke with just the faintest ring of impatience. Then he added: "Your voice, all the while, has been in my