Театр

           Theroomwassurroundedbybookshelvesunderwhichwerecupboards,andfromoneoftheseJuliatookabundleofherlatestphotographs.Shehandedonetotheyoungman.

           "Thisoneisnotsobad."

           "It’slovely."

           "Thenitcan’tbeaslikemeasIthought."

           "Butitis.It’sexactlylikeyou."

           Shegavehimanothersortofsmile,justatrifleroguish;sheloweredhereyelidsforasecondandthenraisingthemgazedathimforalittlewiththatsoftexpressionthatpeopledescribedashervelvetlook.Shehadnoobjectindoingthis.Shedidit,ifnotmechanically,fromaninstinctivedesiretoplease.Theboywassoyoung,soshy,helookedasifhehadsuchanicenature,andshewouldneverseehimagain,shewantedhimtohavehismoney’sworth;shewantedhimtolookbackonthisasoneofthegreatmomentsofhislife.Sheglancedatthephotographagain.Shelikedtothinkshelookedlikethat.Thephotographerhadsoposedher,withherhelp,astoshowheratherbest.Hernosewasslightlythick,buthehadmanagedbyhislightingtomakeitlookverydelicate,notawrinklemarredthesmoothnessofherskin,andtherewasameltinglookinherfineeyes.

           "Allright.Youshallhavethisone.YouknowI’mnotabeautifulwoman,I’mnotevenaveryprettyone;CoquelinalwaysusedtosayIhadthebeautedudiable.*YouunderstandFrench,don’tyou?"

           "Enoughforthat."

           "I’llsignitforyou."

           Shesatatthedeskandwithherbold,flowinghandwrote:Yourssincerely,JuliaLambert.