"The picture?" said Rose, slightly raising her eyebrows.
"Your painting, you know, that is over Mr. Nimmo's writing-table."
"Does he have one of me?" asked Rose, quietly.
"Yes, yes,—an immense one. As broad as that,"—and she stretched out her arms. "It was enlarged from a photograph."
"Ah! when he was here I missed a photograph one day from my album, but I did not know that he had taken it. However, I suspected."
"But does he not write you everything?"
"You only are my kind little correspondent,—with, of course, Narcisse."
"Really, I thought that he wrote everything to you. Dear Madame de Forêt, may I speak freely to you?"
"As freely as you wish, my dear child."