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? ? ? ? 'Where did you get that phrase?' I demanded, with an abruptness that in turn startled her.

? ? ? ? 'What phrase?' she asked.

? ? ? ? '"One small woman."'

? ? ? ? 'Is it yours?' she asked.

? ? ? ? 'Yes,' I answered, 'mine. I made it.'

? ? ? ? 'Then you must have talked in your sleep,' she smiled.

? ? ? ? The dancing, tremulous light was in her eyes. Mine, I knew, were speaking beyond the will of my speech. I leaned toward her. Without volition I leaned toward her, as a tree is swayed by the wind. Ah, we were very close together in that moment. But she shook her head, as one might shake off sleep or a dream, saying:

? ? ? ? 'I have known it all my life. It was my father's name for my mother.'

? ? ? ? 'It is my phrase, too,' I said stubbornly.

? ? ? ? 'For your mother?'

? ? ? ? 'No,' I answered; and she questioned no further, though I could have sworn her eyes retained for some time a mocking, teasing expression.


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