“Much healthier and—and fresher.”
“Prettier, you would say?”
She could not help laughing that he read her thoughts, and did not give himself the least trouble to be gallant. Then she asked him whether he would like to see her portraits of those days, and while she took an album from the table, she thought she might just as well permit him to call her by her name. But she could not get so far as that.
He turned the pages of the album, which contained many of her portraits; delicate little heads, with a ribbon or a string of pearls round the neck. In a few of them she was décolletée.
“Well—what do you think?” she asked, as he remained silent.
“Very charming little faces, all of them, but everywhere an intolerable coquettish little smile. A prettiness much too artificial. Were you always in the habit of posing thus, or did you only do so before a photographer?”
She felt a little piqued.
“For shame! How rude you are!” she said reproachfully.
“Was I rude?” he asked. “I beg your pardon. Yes, ’tis true these are your portraits. I was a little confused at the moment, for you see it is rather difficult to recognize you in them. But, believe me—I should have thought you unbearable had I ever seen you thus. Pretty, yes—but unbearable. Now you are a little thinner, it’s true, you have the traces of suffering, but there is something winning in your face; while in these little faces here there is nothing but coquettishness. I would rather see you as you are now.”
He closed the album, and laid it down.