"You said--" They looked at one another earnestly.

"The next question," she continued with composure, "is: 'Date and place
of birth?' Can you answer any part of _that_ question?"

"I trust I may be able to--some day. . . . 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.