Blunt said nothing, but stood looking at her for a minute or two in silence.

 

“What I like about you,” said Flora, with a touch of malice, “is your cheery

conversation.”

 

I fancy that at that Blunt reddened under his tan. His voice, when he spoke,

sounded different—it had a curious sort of humility in it.

 

“Never was much of a fellow for talking. Not even when I was young.”

 

“That was a very long time ago, I suppose,” said Flora gravely.

 

I caught the undercurrent of laughter in her voice, but I don’t think Blunt did.

 

“Yes,” he said simply, “it was.”

 

“How does it feel to be Methuselah?” asked Flora.

 

This time the laughter was more apparent, but Blunt was following out an idea of

his own.

 

“Remember the Johnny who sold his soul to the devil? In return for being made

young again? There’s an opera about it.”