"Does he admit you to his study and converse on his favorite themes?" she asked, the childlike expression vanishing suddenly from her face.
"Yes."
"Do you understand and enjoy what he says?"
"I do not understand all he says. I am trying to lift myself to a nearer level with him."
"Ah, you aim to be learned. His tastes must have greatly changed, if he admires such females." Her eyes fell, but I fancied there was a gleam in them not altogether pleasant to behold. I remained silent, not caring to explain it was Mr. Winthrop's wish that I should continue, to some extent, the work that had occupied so many years of my life. She turned the leaf of the album, and her own face looked out at me, not any more beautiful than now, but still as perfect as a poet's dream.
"We had these taken the same day!"
She turned still another leaf and they sat together, she looking sweetly at me, but his eyes, I could fancy resting on her with a look in them I had never seen.
"He had the artist destroy the negative, but I secured this one, he fancies the flames have swallowed them all. You will have no further scruples listening to his story?"
"Yes, I have scruples. Much as I would like to hear it, I desire you to tell me nothing but what you feel certain he would be willing for me to hear. Otherwise I cannot look into his eyes without a feeling of guilt."
"I did not think there was such a ridiculously conscientious woman on the earth. Believe me, you are formed after a very unusual pattern. But you must at least hear my story; otherwise you cannot help me."