“Hush,” I said, leaning over the banister. “She did. It’s the artistic temperament.”
Miss Bliss, as a model—artist not cloak—needed no further explanation. With a low comprehending murmur she stole into her room.
VI
The count and Miss Harris have met and all fear of battle is over. At the first encounter, which took place in my sitting-room, it was obvious that the young man was stricken. Since then he has seen her twice and has fallen in love—at least he says he has.
As soon as he felt sure of it he came in to tell me. So he said the other evening, sitting in the steamer chair Betty gave me to replace the one Mrs. Bushey took.
“You are a woman of sympathy,” he said, lighting his third cigarette, “and I knew you would understand.”
Numberless young men have told me of their love-affairs and always were sure I would understand. I think it’s because I listen so well.
I have a fire now. It was easier to buy coal than argue with Mrs. Bushey. The count stretched his legs toward it and smoked dreamily and I counted the cigarettes in the box. He smokes ten in an evening.
“She is most beautiful. I can find only one defect,” he murmured, “she is not thin enough.”
“Isn’t she?” I said, in my character of sympathetic woman, “I thought she was rather too thin.”