Hilda - A Story of Calcutta by Sara Jeannette Duncan
page 42 of 305 (13%)
page 42 of 305 (13%)
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of which resided a hint of the seats nearest the exit under the gallery,
and her wonder at the luxury of gesture that went with them, movements which seemed to imply blank verse and to be thrown away upon two women and a little furniture. A consciousness stood in the room between them, and their commonplaces about the picturesqueness of the bazaar rode on long absorbed regards, one reading, the other anxious to read; yet the encounter was so conventionally creditable to them both that they might have smiled past each other under any circumstances next day and acknowledged no demand for more than the smile. The cutlets had come before Hilda's impression was at the back of her head, her defences withdrawn, her eyes free and content, her elbow on the table. They had found a portrait-painter. "He has such an eye," said Alicia, "for the possibilities of character." "Such an eye that he develops them. I know one man he painted. I suppose when the man was born he had an embryo soul, but in the meantime he and everybody else had forgotten about it. All but Salter. Salter re-created it on the original lines, and brought it up, and gave it a lodging behind the man's wrinkles. I saw the picture. It was fantastic--psychologically." "Psychology has a lot to say to portrait-painting, I know," Alicia said. "Do let him give you a little more. It's only Moselle." She felt quite direct, and simple, too, in uttering her postulate. Her eyes had a friendly, unembarrassed look; there was nothing behind them but the joy of talking intelligently about Salter. Hilda did not even glance away. She looked at her hostess instead, with |
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