They had passed before her; now they turned and passed her again without her perceiving them, so attentively did she follow the distant flight of her thought.
“Tell me, little one,” said the painter to Annette, “would it bore you very much to pose for me once or twice?”
“No, indeed! Quite the contrary.”
“Look well at that young lady who is roaming in the world of fancy.”
“The lady there, in that chair?”
“Yes. Well, you, too, will sit on a chair, you will have an open book on your knee, and you will try to do as she does. Have you ever had daydreams?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Of what?”
He tried to confess her as to her aerial flights, but she would make no reply, evaded his questions, looked at the ducks swimming after some bread thrown to them by a lady, and seemed embarrassed, as if he had touched upon a subject that was a sensitive point with her.
Then, to change the conversation, she talked about her life at Roncieres, spoke of her grandmother, to whom she read aloud a long time every day, and who must now feel very lonely and sad.