They had a universe to talk about—two universes. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. Given time and the right environment, and he would outgrow these defects. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight.
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