The man was
commonplace, as he leaned upon a staff, and between their feet were
paniers of purchases they had been making, which the woman regarded
indifferently, as if her heart reached farther than her eyes, and met
some soft departed scene which she would have none other see.
"She has a good face," said Flare. "I wish she would keep there a moment
more. By George, she looks like somebody I have known."
The old man nodded on his staff. The rumble of the carriages subdued to
a lull all lesser talk or murmurs, and the sky afar off brought into
sharp relief the two Gallic profiles, close together, as if they were
used to reposing so; yet in the language of their deepening lines lay
the stories of lives very, very wide apart.
"The old girl's face is soft," said Ralph Flare. "She has brightened
many a bit of Belgian pike road, and the brown turban on her head is in
clever contrast to the silver shimmer of her hairs. How anomalous are
life and art! How unconscious is this old lady of the narrow escape she
is making from perpetuation! Doubtless she works afield beside that old
Jacques Bonhomme, and drinks sour wine or Normandy cider on Sundays.
That may be the best fate of Suzette, but it must be an amply dry
reformation for any little grisette to contemplate.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155