"Oh, she's beautiful!" Mrs. Walbridge cried in amazement.
He nodded. "Isn't she? And this picture isn't half good enough. You see, her colouring is so wonderful!"
"She's lovely," Grisel said slowly, "simply lovely. I think I've seen her somewhere, too."
He took the photograph and gazed at it in dreamy ecstasy.
"If you ever had," he said, "you couldn't possibly forget her." Then he added shyly to Mrs. Walbridge, "Isn't it wonderful that such a girl could ever have looked at a fellow like me?"
Paul's beautiful voice, so utterly unlike himself, rose and fell softly in a charming song of Chausson's about lilacs, and there was a little silence for a minute.
"Mrs. Perkins is an invalid," Oliver went on at last, when he had put the picture away in his left-hand breast pocket, "so my poor girl hardly ever leaves her. She's a most devoted daughter."
"H'm!"
"I beg your pardon?" he asked turning deferentially to Grisel.