Here, too, was a red-cheeked serving maid who provoked us--but more
especially poor Fred, who asked nothing better than that the wench
should let him alone. But I cared not so greatly--though, of course, she
was nothing to me. How could she be with the gage of Miss Irma hard
under my armpit, just where the Eden Valley tailor had placed my inside
pocket?

Which reminds me that Fred, fluttering the leaves of his lexicon, or
mooning over his beloved Greek verses (which the professor discouraged
because he could not make as good himself), would sigh a little ghost
of a sigh as often as he saw me take it out and lay it on the table
beside me like a watch. For long I thought it was because he feared it
would make me neglect my work, but now, looking back, I can see with
great clearness that it was because he felt that love and suchlike were
ruled out of his life. It was quite a year before I first mentioned Irma
to him by name. Yet he never asked, nor showed that he noticed at all,
save for that quick, gentle sigh.

As portrayed in the miniature, Irma's mother was a gentle fair-haired
woman, with a face like a flower sheltered under a broad-brimmed white
beaver hat, the very mate and marrow of those I have since seen in the
pictures by the great Sir Joshua. She had a dimpled chin that nested in
a fluffy blurr of lace. She was as unlike as possible to my dear brave
Irma, with her curls like shining jet, and the clean-cut, decisive
profile. But I saw at once from whom Baby Louis had gotten his fair soft
curls, his blue eyes, and the wistful appeal of his smile. They were
always before me as I sat with my elbows on the ink-splattered table,
and I did all my work conscious of the rebellious twist of raven curl
that was on the other side. I did not open this often, only when by
myself, and then with extreme care, for the glass, being old, was a
little loose, and it seemed as if the vivid life in the swirl of hair
actually moved it out of its place. For even so much of Irma as a curl
of her locks perforce retained something of her extraordinary vitality.

It often used to come to me that Irma must be like her father over
again, only with all his faults turned to good, strengthened by the
determination he lacked. She had his restlessness, his brilliancy, his
power over men and women. Only along with these she had strength to
guide herself (which he, poor man, never had), and enough over for me
also. And I have my father's word and