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lady took. She stared out of the window; her eyes had filled
with tears.
‘I’m glad they’ve taught you to obey,’ said Madame Mer-
le. ‘That’s what good little girls should do.’
‘Oh yes, I obey very well,’ cried Pansy with soft eager-
ness, almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking
of her piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible
sigh.
Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her
own fine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it
found nothing to deprecate; the child’s small hand was deli-
cate and fair. ‘I hope they always see that you wear gloves,’
she said in a moment. ‘Little girls usually dislike them.’
‘I used to dislike them, but I like them now,’ the child
made answer.
‘Very good, I’ll make you a present of a dozen.’
‘I thank you very much. What colours will they be?’ Pan-
sy demanded with interest.
Madame Merle meditated. ‘Useful colours.’
‘But very pretty?’
‘Are you very fond of pretty things?’
‘Yes; but—but not too fond,’ said Pansy with a trace of
asceticism.
‘Well, they won’t be too pretty,’ Madame Merle returned
with a laugh. She took the child’s other hand and drew her
nearer; after which, looking at her a moment, ‘Shall you
miss mother Catherine?’ she went on.
‘Yes—when I think of her.’
‘Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day,’ added

332 The Portrait of a Lady