I, not knowing how I had
been over-praised to the audience, was also ready, quivering with the
haste I had made in pinning up the pictures and opening the musty, close
room to the air. Then came in a young man.
As I write, Padre, I am back again in that _salon jaune_, and he is
walking in at the door, pausing a second on the threshold at sight of
me. I will give you the little play in one act. We smile. The hero of
the comedy-drama has a rather big mouth, and such white teeth that his
smile, in his brown face, is a lightning-flash at dusk. It is a thin
face with two dimples that make lines when he laughs. His eyes are gray
and long, with the eagle-look that knows far spaces; deep-set eyes under
straight black brows, drawn low. His lashes are black, too, but his
short crinkly hair is brown. He has a good square forehead, and a high
nose like an Indian's. He is tall, and has one of those lean, lanky
loose-jointed figures that crack tennis-players and polo men have. I
like him at once, and I think he likes me, for his eyes light up; and
just for an instant there's a feeling as if we looked through clear
windows into each other's souls. It is almost frightening, that effect!
I begin to talk, to shake off an odd embarrassment.
"Madame Mounet tells me you want to see my brother's pictures," I say.
"Here are a few sketches. He has taken all the rest worth looking at to
Paris."
"It's good of you to let me come in," the hero of the play answers.
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