She relaxed, though not quite convinced.
“You idealize me, Monsieur. We have done our duty, that is all, and we have found in it a great happiness.”
“I wish my sister—I used to think of her as my little sister; good heavens, she must be twenty now!—I wish my sister Molly could know you. Of all the family, she is closest to me. I hate to think of her going through four or five years of useless life, dancing herself to death, learning to get bored with every pleasure: she’s such a little trump, now.” I took out my pocketbook and brought out a photograph of a youngster in pigtail, tanned and straight, looking out with innocent laughter at the most beautiful of worlds.
She took it, and glanced from the photograph to me.
“Yes, I understand. There is something very noble, very pure, very brave. She is your favorite?”
I began to laugh.
“What is it?”
“Do you know, that’s only the second time I think you’ve really looked me in the eyes.”
She blushed—as she did easily—and tried to laugh.