It was plain that
his sister was now watching him between her eyelashes. He had half
expected that. She really was--he had often told her that she really
was--magnificent; and her magnificence was never more obvious than in
the pause that elapsed before she all of a sudden remarked "They so
very indubitably _are_, you know!"
It occurred to him as befitting Eva's remoteness, which was a part
of Eva's magnificence, that her voice emerged somewhat muffled by the
bedclothes. She was ever, indeed, the most telephonic of her sex. In
talking to Eva you always had, as it were, your lips to the receiver.
If you didn't try to meet her fine eyes, it was that you simply
couldn't hope to: there were too many dark, too many buzzing and
bewildering and all frankly not negotiable leagues in between.
Snatches of other voices seemed often to intertrude themselves in the
parley; and your loyal effort not to overhear these was complicated by
your fear of missing what Eva might be twittering. "Oh, you certainly
haven't, my dear, the trick of propinquity!" was a thrust she had
once parried by saying that, in that case, _he_ hadn't--to which his
unspoken rejoinder that she had caught her tone from the peevish
young women at the Central seemed to him (if not perhaps in the last,
certainly in the last but one, analysis) to lack finality.
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