“Some flattery, or you won't remember it.”
“Yes, I like flattery.”
“Well, you look like Countess Branciani when, after thinking her husband the basest of men, she discovered him to be the noblest.”
Emilia blushed. “That's not easily forgotten! But she must have looked braver, bolder, not so under a burden as I feel.”
“The comparison was meant to suit the moment of your reciting.”
“Yes,” said Emilia, half-mournfully, “then 'myself' doesn't sit on my shoulders: I don't even care what I am.”
“That is what Art does for you.”
“Only by fits and starts now. Once I never thought of myself.”
There was a knock at the street-door, and she changed countenance. Presently there came a gentle tap at their own door.
“It is that woman,” said Emilia.