"Don't anticipate too much, inquisitor; I have no acknowledged lover, but—" blushing charmingly, "I have every reason to think that I am loved fondly and sincerely. He is very handsome, Madeline, and—but wait, I will show you his picture."
Madeline nodded, and Claire bounded away, to return quickly bearing in her hand a finely wrought cabinet photograph, encased in velvet and gilt, a la souvenaire. Placing it in her companion's hand, she sat down with a little triumphant sigh, and gazed over Madeline's shoulder with a proud, glad look in her eyes.
"Blonde?" suggested Madeline.
"Yes," eagerly; "such lovely hair and whiskers,—perfect gold color; and fair as a woman."
"So I should judge," and she continued to gaze.
Blonde he was, certainly; hair thrown carelessly back from a brow broad and white; eyes, light, but with an expression that puzzled the gazer.
"Eyes,—what color?" she said, without taking her own off the picture.
"Blue; pale blue, but capable of such varying expression."
"Just so," dryly; "they look mild and saintly here, but I think those eyes are capable of another expression. I could fancy the brain behind such eyes to be—"
"What?" eagerly.