We tried to explain, with no striking success.
“You are as stupid about such matters as were the men of the Old World,” she said, shaking her head and laughing. “I thought that you had with you pictures of ladies you have known which would show me.”
Now, in fact, I had in a pocket-book a photograph of my wife in evening-dress, also a miniature of her head and bust painted on ivory, a beautiful piece of work done by a master hand, which I always wore. These, after a moment’s hesitation, I produced and showed to her, Bickley having gone away for a little while to see about something connected with his attempted analysis of the Life-water. She examined them with great eagerness, and as she did so I noted that her face grew tender and troubled.
“This was your wife,” she said as one who states what she knows to be a fact. I nodded, and she went on:
“She was sweet and beautiful as a flower, but not so tall as I am, I think.”
“No,” I answered, “she lacked height; given that she would have been a lovely woman.”
“I am glad you think that women should be tall,” she said, glancing at her shadow. “The eyes were such as mine, were they not—in colour, I mean?”
“Yes, very like yours, only yours are larger.”
“That is a beautiful way of wearing the hair. Would you be angry if I tried it? I weary of this old fashion.”
“Why should I be angry?” I asked.