“We are told never to look a man in the eyes. It is very old-fashioned to you?”
“But why?”
“Because,” she hesitated a little and then went on, looking away from me, “because, when you look in a man’s eyes, they say, you are seeking a different meaning to his words.” She blushed furiously. “It’s not that exactly but—how shall I say?—we are taught that it is too forward—too provocative. But you are laughing at me,” she said, covered with confusion.
“I am not laughing, Mademoiselle,” I said seriously, “and I like that in you.”
The conversation became difficult and a certain diffidence overcame us. A moment before, she had been talking to me freely and impulsively, though a little shy and hesitant, as a young girl. I saw her mood change and a certain womanly dignity come to her.
“Monsieur, I have been thinking much of the confidence you entrusted to me. Have you—have you no photograph of Miss Brinsmade?”
My pocketbook was still in my hand. I drew out a little snapshot and handed it to her. She held it a long time, studying it intently.
“She is very beautiful,” she said at last.
“Yes.”
“This is how long ago?”