She twitched involuntarily; but, with immediate intuition, maintained her posture, and conned him from under languorous lids.
“How, monsieur?” said she.
“Exactly as you are. I have my tools with me. I beg you to do nothing but just breathe and enjoy life.”
Actually, before she could deny him, he was sketching her. Then, suddenly—watching first the quick travelling of his pencil—she lowered her arms and, like a foolish virgin, extinguished the light of inspiration.
“I think you are very impertinent,” she said.
“If beauty,” said he calmly—for he had secured the essentials of his picture—“will distribute largesse, it must not be surprised to see it scrambled for.”
The girl’s lips parted, as if the fairy bee were probing there for honey.
“What insolence!” she murmured. “Am I then beautiful? But perhaps monsieur sees his own image reflected in my eyes, and falls in love with it like the damoiseau Narcisse.”
She showed the slightest rim of white teeth. It was as if the bow of her mouth revealed itself strung with silver. Her eyes, when open, floated with deep amber lights; her cheeks were sweet warm beds dimpled by Love’s elbow; she was full of bold rich contrasts of colour—a young vestal flaming into the lust of life.
Ned was a little surprised to hear a peasant girl, as he thought her, imaging from mythology.