her reality. He wanted, above everything else, to establish her as real, through and through, very much as he might wish some find in old mahogany not to thin out into mere veneer.
"Because my Aunt Georgina is rather anxious to see you," the girl was saying.
"About what?"
"About the things you're interested in."
"But how does she know what I'm interested in?" he demanded, pondering the fact that the enemy had also been active in the fields of reconnaissance.
The faded lilac sunbonnet slowly turned until it faced the house front.
"I don't think I can talk to you any longer," said the girl, with her non-committal eyes once more on his. "But she'll probably come out when she sees you here."
"But it's you that I'm interested in," he protested, impressed by the latent tragedy in the face which a lilac sunbonnet tended to turn into a mockery. It made him think of columbines in a churchyard.
Her color deepened painfully, but she did
