She was charming, with her hair in disorder,
her eyes two burning points of fire.
"I beg your pardon, mamma; I beg your pardon, Hubert. I'll be good the
rest of this evening. Isn't it lovely?" She sniffed in the breeze with
dilating nostrils, and the wild look of her set him to wondering how
such a gentle mother could have such a gypsy daughter. Perhaps it was
the father--yes, the old man had been an Apache in his youth according
to the slang of the studios.
"But you must paint me as I wish, not as you will," resumed Berenice. "I
hate conventional portraits. Papa Mineur chills me with his cabinet
pictures of haughty society ladies, their faces as stiff as their
starched gowns."
"Oh, Berenice, will you never say polite things of your father?"
"Never," she defiantly replied. "He wouldn't believe me if I did. No,
Hubert, I want to pose as Ophelia. Oh, don't laugh, please!" They could
not help it, and she leaped to the grass and called out:--
"I don't mean a theatrical Ophelia, singing songs and spilling flowers;
I mean Ophelia drowned--" she threw herself on the sward, her arms
crossed on her bosom, and in the moonlight they could see her eyes
closed as if by death.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263