'There is no model in Paris,' she declared, 'with so fine a head.' Then with another sigh she dropped her hold, and propping her chin on her hands, she stared straight before her in silence.
'Do you imagine you are the first?' she asked him presently, with a queer abruptness.
There was a pause.
'You told me so,' he said, at last, his voice quivering; 'don't deceive me—there is no fun in it—I believe it all!'
She laughed, and did not answer for a moment. He put out his covetous arms and would have drawn her to him, but she withdrew herself.
'What did I tell you? I don't remember. In the first place there was a cousin—there is always a cousin!'
He stared at her, his face flushing, and asked her slowly what she meant.
'You have seen his portrait in my room,' she said coolly.
He racked his brains.
'Oh! that portrait on the wall,' he burst out at last, in vain trying for a tone as self-possessed as her own,' that man with a short beard?'