The child stood by gravely, looking with shining eyes at the face bending above the paper. It was a handsome face with clear, hard lines—the reddish hair brushed up conventionally from the temples, and the skin a little pallid under its careful massage and skilfully touched surface.
To Betty Harris her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world—more beautiful than the marble Venus at the head of the long staircase, or the queenly lady in the next room, forever stepping down from her gilded frame into the midst of tapestry and leather in the library. It may have been that Betty’s mother was quite as much a work of art in her way as these other treasures that had come from the Old World. But to Betty Harris, who had slight knowledge of art values, her mother was beautiful, because her eyes had little points of light in them that danced when she laughed, and her lips curved prettily, like a bow, if she smiled.
They curved now as she looked up from her note. “Well, daughter?” She had sealed the note and laid it one side. “Was it a good lesson?” She leaned back in her chair, stroking the child’s hand softly, while her eyes travelled over the quaint, dignified little figure. The child was a Velasquez—people had often remarked it, and the mother had taken the note that gave to her clothes the regal air touched with simplicity. “So it was a good lesson, was it?” she repeated, absently, as she stroked the small dark hand—her own figure graciously outlined as she leaned back enjoying the lifted face and straight, clear eyes.
“Mother-dear!” The child’s voice vibrated with the intensity behind it. “I have seen a man—a very good man!”
“Yes?” There was a little laugh in the word. She was accustomed to the child’s enthusiasms. Yet they were always new to her—even the old ones were. “Who was he, daughter—this very good man?”
“He is a Greek, mother—with a long, beautiful name—I don’t think I can tell it to you. But he is most wonderful—!” The child spread her hands and drew a deep breath.
“More wonderful than father?” It was an idle, laughing question—while she studied the lifted-up face.
“More wonderful than father—yes—” The child nodded gravely. “I can’t quite tell you, mother-dear, how it feels—” She laid a tiny hand on her chest. Her eyes were full of thought. “He speaks like music, and he loves things—oh, very much!”
“I see—And did Madame Lewandowska introduce you to him?”
“Oh, it was not there.” The child’s face cleared with swift thought. “I didn’t tell you—Madame was ill—”