McAllister shrugged: “Decidedly. A face like a Greuze, perfect eyebrows—so perfect as to be almost suspicious; that inimitable droop of the eyes and the corners of the mouth—at once childlike and mature; and her coloring!”
“You are always finding the most impossible women, and telling me how paintable they are. Do you want to paint this little bore?”
“Somebody has painted her, and to perfection,” he said, with authority. “I will show you her likeness in the Louvre when we get back.”
He had thrust his hands in his pockets and begun to stroll up and down the room. As she watched him a shade crossed his sister’s face. The worsted ball Fanny had let fall her mother picked up and turned over in her hands.
“As you sat and talked to the poor little woman I watched you; she was fascinated by you—no, really! Her entire expression altered! She has never seen anyone like you before.” (“That’s what the drug-store man thought,” murmured McAllister.) “And I hope she won’t take to frequenting the Golf Club and other local festive places where she can see you.”
“Thanks, Agnes.”
McAllister laughed, and, taking from her hands the red worsted ball, idly unwound it.
“Don’t be foolish! If we are here for any purpose under heaven, let’s amuse ourselves and some of these people, too! I don’t intend to shut myself up like Noah in the ark, with only the passengers I took on board at Rome. Let’s have Mrs. Warrener to lunch; she’s a nice little creature; she’s immured in this hole, and she’s probably bored to death.”
“If she is immured,” murmured Mrs. Bellamy, “don’t let’s bring her out.”