Instantly I know he's not English. He has one of those nice American
voices, with a slight drawl, that somehow sound extraordinarily frank. I
don't speculate about his name. I don't stop to wonder who he is. I
think only of _what_ he is. I forget that Madame has exploited him as a
millionaire. I don't care whether or not he buys a picture. I want
nothing, except the pleasure of talking with him, and seeing how he
looks at me.
I mumble some polite nonsense in return for his. He gazes at Brian's
water-colours and admires them. Then he turns from the pictures to me.
We discuss the sketches and the scenes they represent. "Oh, have you
been _there_?" "Why, I was at that place a week ago!" "How odd!" "We
must have missed each other by a day." And we drift into gossip about
ourselves. Still we don't come to the subject of names. Names seem to be
of no importance. They belong to the world of conventions.
We talk and talk--mostly of France, and our travels, and pictures and
books we love; but our eyes speak of other things. I feel that his are
saying, "You are beautiful!" Mine answer, "I'm glad you think that. Why
do you seem so different to me from other people?" Then suddenly,
there's a look too long between us. "I wish my brother were here to
explain his pictures!" I cry; though I don't wish it at all. It is only
that I must break the silence.
This brings us back to the business in hand. He says, "May I really buy
one of these sketches?"
"Are you sure you _want_ to?" I laugh.
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