you always had delightful ways. It's your ways that have always held me—and your wits. But how have you managed to become beautiful?"
"Beautiful? My poor old Stephen—your eyes!"
"As good as they ever were, except for reading. No, you've got something new . . . what is it? Dignity, that's it. You were always too gentle, too shy, to be properly dignified."
"I was always shy," she agreed, "until lately."
"I adored your shyness. A gentle, soft-voiced thing you were. Clever . . . devilish clever! How you managed Robert! And me. And all the chattering, brilliant, stupid, charming people of our day. You managed 'em all. And nobody knew it, but me. I used to tell Robert he'd have been a government clerk somewhere, but for you."
"That," she said, "was untrue, for Robert had wit and a good brain. His fault was that he didn't understand people. He wasn't human enough. I could help him there."
"And you did help him. You made him; say what you will. You would have made any man."
They talked—how they talked! Never taking their eyes off each other's faces. Remembering things that they had half forgotten, things that it took the two of them together to remember
