“Oh! I ask pardon. No, it isn’t my idea of madamigella. It seems to me that her likeness must be sketched in color. Those lines are true, but they need color to subdue them; they go too far, they are more than true.”
“You’re quite right, Don Ippolito,” said Ferris.
“Then you don’t think she always has this proud look?” pursued Mrs. Vervain. The painter fancied that Florida quelled in herself a movement of impatience; he looked at her with an amused smile.
“Not always, no,” answered Don Ippolito.
“Sometimes her face expresses the greatest meekness in the world.”
“But not at the present moment,” thought Ferris, fascinated by the stare of angry pride which the girl bent upon the unconscious priest.
“Though I confess that I should hardly know how to characterize her habitual expression,” added Don Ippolito.
“Thanks,” said Florida, peremptorily. “I’m tired of the subject; it isn’t an important one.”
“Oh yes it is, my dear,” said Mrs. Vervain. “At least it’s important to me, if it isn’t to you; for I’m your mother, and really, if I thought you looked like this, as a general thing, to a casual observer, I should consider it a reflection upon myself.” Ferris gave a provoking laugh, as she continued sweetly, “I must insist, Don Ippolito: now did you ever see Florida look so?”
The girl leaned back, and began to wave her fan slowly to and fro before her face.