'What do you think of my sketch, Mademoiselle?' Graham asked, without hesitation, as she passed behind his chair. To speak to her in this easy tone was to demonstrate to the old lady that he was not running underground.
She paused there, behind him. Solitudes; solitudes where violets grew; the breath of lonely spring-tide woods seemed wafted to him from her presence.
'Do I look a cheerful or a tragic sinner, Marthe?' the old lady inquired.
Mademoiselle Ludérac considered. The portrait is very interesting, but it does not flatter you, 'she said.
'And why should it flatter me? Monsieur Graham is no flatterer. Do you like it? That is the point.'
'I do not like the smile.—But the eyes I like, very much.'
'Are they eyes that, in youth, could have stirred men's hearts? Can you tell me that?'
Graham saw that Mademoiselle Ludérac smiled at her old friend over his head. 'Mais oui, mais oui,' she answered, 'and much more besides.'
'I ask for no more,' said the old lady.
'And what is wrong with the smile?' asked Graham.
'The moment of arrest that always followed any direct approach he ventured upon made itself felt; but Mademoiselle Ludérac found a full reply—'If it could be the smile she gave to Médor?'
'Ah, but she isn't looking at Médor, you must remember; she is looking at me,' said Graham. 'I
