"Do they compare with the white hands of the ladies you know?" she said.
"They are about the finest hands I have ever seen," he replied. "You can't see yourself, sister of mine."
"I do not care very much to see myself," she said. "If I had not a maid I expect I should look very shiftless, for I don't care to look in a mirror. My only mirror used to be a stream of water in summer," she added, "and a corner of a looking-glass got from the Hudson's Bay fort in the winter."
"Well, you are missing a lot of enjoyment," he said, "if you do not use your mirror much. The rest of us can appreciate what you would see there."
She reached out and touched his arm.
"Do you like to look at me?" she questioned, with a strange simple candour.
For the first time in many a year, Richard Armour blushed like a girl fresh from school. The question had come so suddenly, it had gone so quickly into a sensitive corner of his nature, that he lost command of himself for the instant, yet had little idea why the command was lost. He touched the fingers on his arm affectionately.
"Like to look at you—like to look at you? Why, of course we all like to look at you. You are very fine and handsome and interesting."
"Richard," she said, drawing her hands away, "is that why you like to look at me?"
He had recovered himself. He laughed in his old hearty way, and said: