He particularly admired the oval of her face, her soft brown eyes,
and the harmonious contour of her head. He saw her instantly with a
painter's imagination--filmy lace must modulate about her head like a
dreamy aureole; across her figure a scarf of yellow silk; in her hands
he would paint a crystal vase, and in the vase one rose with a heart of
sulphur. And her eyes would gaze as if she saw the symbol of her
age--the days slipping away like ropes of sand from her grasp. He could
make a fascinating portrait he thought, and he said so. Instantly
another peal of irritating laughter came from Berenice:--
"Don't tell papa. He is _so_ jealous of the portrait he tried to make of
mamma last summer. You never saw it! It's awful. It's hid away behind a
lot of canvases in the atelier. It looks like a Cezanne still-life. I'll
show it to you sometime." Her mother revealed annoyance by compressing
her lips. Falcroft said nothing. They had skirted the pool in single
file, for the path was narrow and the denseness of the trees caused a
partial obscurity.
Pages:
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257