“I thought they were,” said Norma.
“Oh, yes—very rare indeed. I only wish you had come in, when you were by my house. Gladly would I have shown you the choicest ones of the lot. And besides, I have something I should wish to show you. It is in the house, a picture. It is a masterpiece, I think.”
“A—a picture,” Norma’s voice cracked. “There it is,” she thought, “but I must not betray myself.”
“Oh! A picture,” she exclaimed. “A masterpiece—how fine! I’d love to see it. And I have a friend who is very much interested in pictures. But then, she’s a very important and busy person.”
“Surely she must not be too busy to look at a masterpiece. I truly think it is by Millet, the man who painted the Angelus.”
“Oh! Then I’m sure she would come,” said Norma. “She’s a lover of Millet’s work. His characters are so simple, so human and real.”
“Ah! I see you also know pictures.”
“A little,” Norma admitted.
“Bring your friend out any time, just any time.” The photographer’s face fairly beamed.
“I’ll bring her some time,” Norma agreed.