“Wrong with your hair? It is always wrong. But that is not your fault. You are not responsible for its looking like a hedgehog’s.”
“Hedgehogs haven’t any hair,” said Jacqueline, much hurt by the observation.
“True, they have only prickles, which remind me of the susceptibility of your temper. I beg your pardon I was looking at you critically. Being myself indulgent and kindhearted, I was only looking at you from an artist’s point of view—as is always allowable in my profession. Remember, I see you very rarely by daylight. I am obliged to work as long as the light allows me. Well, in the light of this April sunshine I was saying to myself—excuse my boldness!—that you had reached the right age for a picture.”
“For a picture? Were you thinking of painting me?” cried Jacqueline, radiant with pleasure.
“Hold a moment, please. Between a dream and its execution lies a great space. I was only imagining a picture of you.”
“But my portrait would be frightful.”
“Possibly. But that would depend on the skill of the painter.”
“And yet a model should be—I am so thin,” said Jacqueline, with confusion and discouragement.
“True; your limbs are like a grasshopper’s.”
“Oh! you mean my legs—but my arms....”