He walked out. She made an instinctive movement toward him, but checked herself. As he left the room she confronted the mirror and looked at herself.
It brought the usual mood of kindliness.
She rang for Frederick. "The Menaud motor, at once!" and went up-stairs to telephone. If the reporters had to use photographs, she couldn't stop them.
Ten minutes later she had kindly given La Touche the photographer eighteen poses.
La Touche thanked her with the perfervid sincerity of a man whose irreducible minimum is forty-eight dollars a dozen. Then he asked, anxiously:
"In case the reporters—"
"I suppose they'd get them, anyhow." She spoke cynically.
"Not unless they stole 'em," he denied, dignifiedly. "We never give any out without permission. Of course they'd use snapshots, which are not always—er—artistic."
Remembering that she had been snapped when she had a veil on and also with her mouth open, as all mouths must be in active speech, she told him in a bored tone: