"It's only he that's old. She's not more than about thirty-five."

"That IS old."

He restrained the words: "Of course it's old to a kid like you!" And,
instead, he looked at her. Was she exactly a kid? She seemed quite tall
(for a girl) and not very thin, and there was something frank and soft
about her face, and as if she wanted you to be nice to her.

"Is she very pretty?"

This time he did not go red, such was the disturbance that question
made in him. If he said: "Yes," it was like letting the world know his
adoration; but to say anything less would be horrible, disloyal. So he
did say: "Yes," listening hard to the tone of his own voice.

"I thought she was. Do you like her very much?" Again he struggled with
that thing in his throat, and again said: "Yes."

He wanted to hate this girl, yet somehow could not--she looked so soft
and confiding. She was staring before her now, her lips still just
parted, so evidently THAT had not been because of Bolero's pulling; they
were pretty all the same, and so was her short, straight little nose,
and her chin, and she was awfully fair. His thoughts flew back to that
other face--so splendid, so full of life. Suddenly he found himself
unable to picture it--for the first time since he had started on his
journey it would not come before him.

"Oh! Look!"