"You look Northern too," she went on; "you are so much more solemn than
the Virginia men--I mean your face is."
"I suppose I've had a solemn sort of existence," he agreed. "Life's an
awful serious thing where I was born. The days are not long enough,
life's too short, to get your work done. It's a stony pasture," he
admitted. He described the Meikeljohn farm land, sloping steeply to
swift rocky streams, the bare existence of the sheep, the bitter
winters. He touched briefly on Hester and his marriage.
"It's no wonder," she pronounced, "that you have shadows in your eyes.
You can't imagine," she continued, "how wonderful everything was in
Richmond, before--I simply can't talk about it now. I suppose we are
ruined, but there isn't a man or woman who wouldn't do the same thing
all over again. I'm almost glad that father isn't--isn't here; misery
of any kind made him so wretched ... perfect memories." She closed her
eyes.
Her under lip, he saw, projected slightly, her chin was fine but
stubborn. These details renewed his delight; they lent a warm humanity
to her charm.
"Any one would know," she said, regarding him, "that you are absolutely
trustworthy. It's a nice quality now, but I don't think I would have
noticed it even a month ago. You can see that I have grown frightfully
old in the littlest while. Yes, you are comfortable to be with, and I
suspect that counts for a great deal. It's quite sad, too, to grow old.
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