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Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence. Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office.
My car was standing before his gate; Luther and I drove along the streets of the little town, its gardens bright with his own varieties of Santa Rosa, Peachblow, and Burbank roses. "My friend Henry Ford and I both believe in the ancient theory of reincarnation," Luther told me. "It sheds light on aspects of life otherwise inexplicable.
"And the mural decorations which one of you did those?" I remarked, as a long pause came stealing in. "Did you hear what Mr. Littlejourneys asked?" called White Pigeon to the others. "No; what was it?" "He wants to know which one of us decorated the walls!" "Mr. Littlejourneys meant illumined the walls," jerked Peachblow, over her shoulder.
And there I sat on my front steps, being embraced in a perfume of everybody's lilacs and peachblow and sweet syringa and affectionate interest and moonlight, with a letter in my hand from the man whose two photographs and many letters I had kept locked up in the garret for years.
Parkins had just passed down the table with a dust covered bottle which he handled with the care of a collector fingering a peachblow vase. The precious fluid had been poured into that gentleman's glass and its contents were now within an inch of his nose. The moment was too grave for instant reply; Mr. Crossbin was allowing the aroma to mount to the innermost recesses of his nostrils.
White Pigeon was thirty or thirty-five, mebbe; she had some gray hairs mixed in with the brown, and at times there was a tinge of melancholy in her laugh and a sort of half-minor key in her voice. I think she had had a Past, but I don't know for sure. Women under thirty seldom know much, unless Fate has been kind and cuffed them thoroughly, so the little peachblow Americaine did not interest me.
Yet I do really believe White Pigeon is forty, or awfully close to it. There are silver streaks among her brown braids, and surely the peachblow has long gone from her cheek. Then she was awfully tanned and that little mole on her forehead, and its mate on her chin, stand out more than ever, like the freckles on the face of Alcibiades Roycroft when he has taken on his August russet.
And so Soubrette could not think of going when it looked so much like rain, and Anglaise could not think of going without Soubrette, and Peachblow was getting nervous about the coming examinations, and must study, as she knew she would just die if she failed to pass. "You will anyway sometime!" said White Pigeon.
"Quite a protection in summer, isn't it?" asked Tavia, noticing how the sunburn stopped where the hair began, and that otherwise the young man was much tanned. "Yes, some. But a fellow can't expect to be a peachblow at Camp Hard Tack." "It must be a great sport to camp," ventured Tavia. "The greatest ever!
The peachblow was all gone from White Pigeon's cheek, but she was fairly wise and reasonably good I'm certain of that. She called herself a student and spoke of her pictures as "studies," but she had lived in Paris ten years. Peachblow was her pupil sent over from Bradford, Pennsylvania, where her father was a "producer."
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