“I’m so glad you like it yourself, Miss Lauderdale,” he said, coming nearer to her as he spoke. “That’s always a test.”
“Yes—I do like it. But—I suppose I ought not to criticise—ought I? I don’t know anything about it.”
“Oh, yes, you do. I should like to hear what you think. You’ve not seen it for two or three weeks, and then it was in the studio. You’ve got a new impression of it now. Tell me—won’t you?”
“Well—you don’t mind? Really not? Then I’ll tell you. I think you’ve put something of Hester into me. Look at it. Do you see it yourself?”
“No—frankly, I don’t,” answered Crowdie, but a change came over his face as he spoke—a mere shadow of amusement, a slight thickening of the heavy red lips.
“It’s in the eyes and the mouth,” continued Katharine. “I don’t know exactly what it is, but it reminds me of Hester in such an odd way—as I’ve seen her look sometimes. There’s a little sort of drawing down of the eyelids at the corners and up in the middle, with a kind of passionate, longing look she has now and then. Don’t you see it? And the mouth—I don’t know—it reminds me of her, too—the lips just parted a little—as though they wanted something—the way one looks at big strawberries on the table before they’re served—” Katharine laughed.
“Yes—but that’s just the way you looked,” protested Crowdie. “Doesn’t Miss Lauderdale raise her eyes just in that way, Mr. Lauderdale?” he asked, turning to the old gentleman.
“Oh, no!” laughed Katharine. “I never look like that. I keep my mouth shut and glare straight at people.”
“It seems to me to be very like,” said the old man, bending forward with his great head on one side and his hands on his knees, as he looked at the portrait.
“It’s a great picture, anyway—whether it’s like me or not,” said Katharine.