"I kissed her eyes."

They were silent for a little, while Miss Theodosia set small, nervous
stitches in John Bradford's shirt, and John Bradford twiddled the edges
of the magazine. He stole glances, now and then, at this strange woman
with whom he seemed to have come so oddly into contact. He could make a
story of her dark hair, straight shoulders, beautiful hands. He could
not get a good view of her full face. Bending over a bed, kissing a
little sleeper's eyes--he could work her in that way. If he knew her a
little better--

"I knew they did it!"

"Did what--who?"

"Women--kissed that way. You have proved it now."

"I'm not women. I'm just one woman, and I never did it in my life
before."

"Well, you liked doing it, didn't you? I could put you in, liking it."

The shirt slid to the floor, and Miss Theodosia gave her visitor a full
view of her face.

"Are you making 'copy' of me? Because if you are thinking of putting me
anywhere, put me into a story like that. I'd like it. I mean, with
little children in a bed--and one in a clothes basket! Say I tucked them
in--Yes, I liked kissing Stefana's eyes. I should love to have another