“Well, the result justifies you.”
“D’ you think it’s pretty?”
“I most certainly do.”
“And don’t you think it looks just the least lee-eetle bit like me?” pursued Darcy shyly.
Gloria scrutinized the drawing again, and then the wistful face before her. With growing astonishment she realized the fundamental likeness.
“More than that,” said she. “That young man knows how to see with his eyes.”
“It was his own notion,” said the girl in a rush of words. “One night I was sitting at the piano. He said there were lines in my face that he wanted. He asked me if I’d sit for him once. Then he had me come back again and again. I didn’t mind. I—I liked it. It was the first time any one had ever seen anything to admire about me since I was a child. Oh, and one day he said: ‘Miss Darcy, you must have been a beautiful child.’”
“Were you?” asked Gloria.
From another pocket Darcy took a small photograph holder. “Exhibit B,” she said, passing it to the other.
It showed the head and shoulders of an eleven-year-old girl.