After Thea went away with the maid, Ottenburg came up to Mrs. Nathanmeyer and stood beside her, resting his hand on the high back of her chair.
“Well, gnädige Frau, do you like her?”
“I think so. I liked her when she talked to father. She will always get on better with men.”
Ottenburg leaned over her chair. “Prophetess! Do you see what I meant?”
“About her beauty? She has great possibilities, but you can never tell about those Northern women. They look so strong, but they are easily battered. The face falls so early under those wide cheek-bones. A single idea—hate or greed, or even love—can tear them to shreds. She is nineteen? Well, in ten years she may have quite a regal beauty, or she may have a heavy, discontented face, all dug out in channels. That will depend upon the kind of ideas she lives with.”
“Or the kind of people?” Ottenburg suggested.
The old Jewess folded her arms over her massive chest, drew back her shoulders, and looked up at the young man. “With that hard glint in her eye? The people won’t matter much, I fancy. They will come and go. She is very much interested in herself—as she should be.”
Ottenburg frowned. “Wait until you hear her sing. Her eyes are different then. That gleam that comes in them is curious, isn’t it? As you say, it’s impersonal.”
The object of this discussion came in, smiling. She had chosen neither the blue nor the yellow gown, but a pale rose-color, with silver butterflies. Mrs. Nathanmeyer lifted her lorgnette and studied her as she approached. She caught the characteristic things at once: the free, strong walk, the calm carriage of the head, the milky whiteness of the girl’s arms and shoulders.
“Yes, that color is good for you,” she said approvingly. “The yellow one probably killed your hair? Yes; this does very well indeed, so we need think no more about it.”