"It seemed to me," my friend replied, "that she began on it to _you_ as
soon as she got hold of you. Weren't you aware?"
I debated afresh; I didn't know that I had been. "Not to the point of
terror. She's so gentle and so appealing. Even if she took one in hand
with violence, moreover," I added, "I don't see why terror--given so
charming a person--should be the result. It's flattering."
"Ah, you're brave," said Obert.
"I didn't know you were ever timid. How can you be, in your profession?
Doesn't it come back to me, for that matter, that--only the other
year--you painted her?"
"Yes, I faced her to that extent. But she's different now."
I scarcely made it out. "In what way different? She's as charming as
ever."
As if even for his own satisfaction my friend seemed to think a little.
"Well, her affections were not then, I imagine, at her disposal. I judge
that that's what it must have been. They were fixed--with intensity; and
it made the difference with _me_. Her imagination had, for the time,
rested its wing. At present it's ready for flight--it seeks a fresh
perch. It's trying. Take care."
"Oh, I don't flatter myself," I laughed, "that I've only to hold out my
hand! At any rate," I went on, "_I_ sha'n't call for help."