He rubbed his head reflectively.
"Oh, I'll do it, I suppose," he said at last.
She laughed at him and resumed her practicing, making some notable improvements on her first attempts and adding "Mère Michel" and "Au Claire de la Lune," "Le Roi Dagobert" to her répertoire.
"Where on earth did you learn that?" he asked in an entr'acte.
"At school—in Paris."
"And the mandolin?"
"A parlor trick. You see, I'm not so useless, after all."
Presently, when she sat beside him to rest, he brought out a pad and crayon and made a drawing of her in her cap and bells. He began a little uncertainly, a little carelessly, but his interest growing, in a moment he was absorbed.
Whatever knowledge of her had been hidden from him as a man, it seemed suddenly revealed to the painter now. The broad, smooth brow which meant intelligence, the short nose, which meant amiability, the nostrils well arched, which meant pride, the first rounded lips, which meant sensibility, the sharp little declivity beneath them and the squarish chin, which meant either willfulness or determination (he chose the former), and the eyes, gray blue, set ever so slightly at an angle, which could mean much or nothing at all.
"Do you see me like that?" she laughed when it was finished. "I'm so glad. You can draw, can't you?"