.

.

What _are_ you writing ?" "I'm writing: 'He trusts he may be able to, some day.' Wasn't that what you said ?" "Yes, I did say that.

I--I'm not perfectly sure what I meant by it." She passed to the next question: "Height ?" "About five feet six," he said, fascinated gaze on her.
"Hair ?" "More gold than brown--full of--er--gleams--" She looked up quickly; his eyes reverted to the window rather suddenly.

He had been looking at her hair.
"Complexion ?" she continued after a shade of hesitation.
"It's a sort of delicious mixture--bisque, tinted with a pinkish bloom--ivory and rose--" He was explaining volubly, when she began to shake her head, timing each shake to his words.
"Really, Mr.Gatewood, I think you are hopelessly vague on that point--unless you desire to convey the impression that she is speckled." "Speckled!" he repeated, horrified.