“I suggested as much to her,” said Dufour. “She is already on a strong wave, but she must try and avoid being refractory, you know.” He said this in a straightforward, business way, but his voice was touched with a certain sort of admirable tenderness.
Miss Moyne was looking out over the deep, hazy valley, her cheeks still warm with the thought of that newspaper portrait with its shabby clothes and towsled bangs. What was fame, bought at such a price! She bridled a little, but did not turn her head as she said.
“I am not refractory, I am indignant, and I have a right to be. They cannot justify the liberty they have taken, besides I will not accept notoriety—I—”
“There, now, dear, that is what Lois said, and Milton John Jones, my nephew, was at first bound that he wouldn’t let Tom, my brother, advertise him; but he soon saw his way clear, I assure you, and now he publishes four serials at once. Be prudent, dear, be prudent.”
“But the idea of picturing me with great barbaric rings in my ears and with a corkscrew curl on each side and—”
Dufour interrupted her with a laugh almost hearty enough to be called a guffaw, and Mrs. Black smiled indulgently as if at a clever child which must be led, not driven.
“Being conscious that you really are stylish and beautiful, you needn’t care for the picture,” said Dufour, in a tone of sturdy sincerity.
“There is nothing so effective as a foil,” added Mrs. Black.
Miss Moyne arose and with her pretty chin slightly elevated walked away.
“How beautiful she is!” exclaimed Dufour, gazing after her, “and I am delighted to know that you are taking an interest in her.”