“Yes; she goes to everybody. Do you like Persians? She's all fur really. Feel!”
Entering with his fingers the recesses of the kitten, he said:
“Cats without fur are queer.”
“Have you seen one without fur?”
“Oh, yes! In my profession we have to go below fur—I'm a sculptor.”
“That must be awfully interesting.”
What a woman of the world! But what a child, too! And now he could see that the face in the sepia drawing was older altogether—lips not so full, look not so innocent, cheeks not so round, and something sad and desperate about it—a face that life had rudely touched. But the same eyes it had—and what charm, for all its disillusionment, its air of a history! Then he noticed, fastened to the frame, on a thin rod, a dust-coloured curtain, drawn to one side. The self-possessed young voice was saying:
“Would you mind if I showed you my drawings? It would be awfully good of you. You could tell me about them.” And with dismay he saw her open a portfolio. While he scrutinized those schoolgirl drawings, he could feel her looking at him, as animals do when they are making up their minds whether or no to like you; then she came and stood so close that her arm pressed his. He redoubled his efforts to find something good about the drawings. But in truth there was nothing good. And if, in other matters, he could lie well enough to save people's feelings, where Art was concerned he never could; so he merely said:
“You haven't been taught, you see.”
“Will you teach me?”