Gibson had been talking a long time to Phoebe. They were sitting
together on the beach, under the shadow of the cliff. He was trying
to form Phoebe's mind. Phoebe's mind was deliciously young, and
it had the hunger and thirst of youth. A little shy and difficult to
approach, Phoebe's mind, but he had found out what it liked best,
and it pleased him to see how confidingly and delicately it, so to
speak, ate out of his hand.
He puzzled her a good deal. And she had a very pretty way of closing
her eyes when she was puzzled. In another woman it would have meant
that he was boring her; Phoebe did it to shut out the intolerable
light of knowledge.
"Ah!--don't," he cried.
"Don't shut my eyes? I always shut my eyes when I'm trying to
think," said Phoebe.
He said nothing. That was not what he had meant when he had said
"Don't."
"Am I boring you?" he said presently. His tone jarred a little on
Phoebe; he had such a nice voice generally.
"No," said she. "Why?"
"Because you keep on doing that."
"Doing what?"
"That."
"Oh!--this?"
She put up her hand and untwisted the little tendril of brown hair
that hung deliciously over her left ear.
"I always do that when I'm thinking."