“Where did you find it?” he asked. I couldn’t understand his expression. He looked embarrassed, but not at all afraid.
“I think you know, Mr. Harbison,” I retorted.
“I wish I did. You opened it?”
“Yes.”
We stood looking at each other across the table. It was his glance that wavered.
“About the picture—of you,” he said at last. “You see, down there in South America, a fellow hasn’t much to do in the evenings, and a—a chum of mine and I—we were awfully down on what we called the plutocrats, the—the leisure classes. And when that picture of yours came in the paper, we had—we had an argument. He said—” He stopped.
“What did he say?”
“Well, he said it was the picture of an empty-faced society girl.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed.
“I—I maintained there were possibilities in the face.” He put both hands on the table, and, bending forward, looked down at me. “Well, I was a fool, I admit. I said your eyes were kind and candid, in spite of that haughty mouth. You see, I said I was a fool.”