alluring, there was an air of modesty and even haughtiness, I could distinguish only these beautiful eyes which rested on objects like the rays of some heavenly
star, and I followed her gaze which passed from the
floor to the frame work, so vibrant with luminosity
and caresses. The embarrassing silence continued.
I thought I alone was the cause of this embarrassment
and I was getting ready to leave, when Lirat exclaimed:
"Ah! Pardon! . . . I have forgotten. . . . Dear Madame, allow me to introduce to you my friend Jean Mintie."
She greeted me with a gracious and at the same time coaxing nod of her head and in a very sweet voice, which thrilled me deliciously, she said:
"I am delighted to meet you, Monsieur, but I know you well."
While very much flushed, I was stammering out a few confused and silly words, Lirat broke in mockingly:
"I hope you are not going to make him believe that you have read his book?"
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Lirat. . . . I have read it. . . . It is very good."
"Yes, like my studio and my painting, isn't that right?"
"Oh, no! what a comparison!"
She said it frankly, with a laugh, which rolled through the room like the chirping of a bird.
I did not like this laughter. Although it had a hard, sonorous quality, it nevertheless rang false. It seemed to me out of harmony with the expression of her face, so delicately sad, and then, in my admiration for Lirat's genius it hurt me almost like an insult. I do not know why, but it would have been more pleasing to me if she had expressed her admiration for this
