Whatever his weakness for Fantine might cost, McTaggart knew, deep down in his heart, respect did not share in the feeling; his shrewdness would balance his desire. But he knew as well that she held a charm which set her apart from her type, not only physical but mental, appealing to his intellect.
There lay the danger. For after her the English women he admired seemed heavy; they lacked her spice; their calmer beauty was apt to cloy on close acquaintance.
He was idly scanning the photographs, his mind partially abstracted, when he caught a glimpse of a curious face, half-hidden from his sight.
The portrait, old and faded, had slipped into the crack between mirror and wall and he rescued it and held it a moment underneath the electric light.
A man with a short square beard, his dark hair cut "en brosse," with evil eyes and an aquiline nose, rather crooked below the bridge. Something Eastern, McTaggart thought, lay in the lazy, sensuous smile, in the heavily lidded narrow eyes, slightly tilted toward the temples.
A Frenchman? hardly. A Greek? perhaps. A "wrong un'"!—of that he was sure.
He had just time to replace the photo before Fantine entered the room.
"Me voilà donc!—you admire my gallery?—all the men I have loved and lost..."
"It makes me glad I am not among them." McTaggart turned with a short laugh. "I should like to flatter myself with the thought, that I am the one you will love ... and keep!"
"That depends." She came nearer and the faint perfume she affected floated up into his nostrils as he looked down from his height at her.