"We crossed on the same boat," she said. "We found there was a good
deal in common between us. She--she told me things." When you came
to think it out it was almost the truth.
"What is she like?" demanded Matthew.
"Oh, just--well, not exactly--" It was an awkward question. There
came to her relief the reflection that there was really no need for
her to answer it.
"What's it got to do with you?" she said.
"I am Aston Rowant," said Matthew.
The Central Park, together with the universe in general, fell away
and disappeared. Somewhere out of chaos was sounding a plaintive
voice: "What is she like? Can't you tell me? Is she young or
old?"
It seemed to have been going on for ages. She made one supreme
gigantic effort, causing the Central Park to reappear, dimly,
faintly, but it was there again. She was sitting on a seat.
Matthew--Aston Rowant, whatever it was--was seated beside her.
"You've seen her? What is she like?"
"I can't tell you."
He was evidently very cross with her. It seemed so unkind of him.
"Why can't you tell me--or, why won't you tell me? Do you mean
she's too awful for words?"
"No, certainly not--as a matter of fact--"
"Well, what?"
She felt she must get away or there would be hysterics somewhere.
She sprang up and began to walk rapidly towards the gate.
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