He shrugged his shoulders. “What would you have? We are different. That is unpardonable. An artist is always lonely, too; he has a skin fewer than other people, and he sees things that they do not. People do not like you to be different. If ever in your life you act differently from others, you will find it so, mademoiselle.”
Noel felt herself flushing. Was he reading her secret? His eyes had such a peculiar, secondsighted look.
“Have you nearly finished?” she asked.
“No, mademoiselle; I could go on for hours; but I do not wish to keep you. It is cold for you, sitting there.”
Noel got up. “May I look?”
“Certainly.”
She did not quite recognise herself—who does?—but she saw a face which affected her oddly, of a girl looking at something which was, and yet was not, in front of her.
“My name is Lavendie,” the painter said; “my wife and I live here,” and he gave her a card.
Noel could not help answering: “My name is Noel Pierson; I live with my father; here's the address”—she found her case, and fished out a card. “My father is a clergyman; would you care to come and see him? He loves music and painting.”
“It would be a great pleasure; and perhaps I might be allowed to paint you. Alas! I have no studio.”