red only, without
suspecting.

"If I hadn't been certain of it before," she wrote, "I should believe
now that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of
in our philosophy. It _must_ indeed be that our thoughts do travel far,
and impress themselves upon the thoughts of others, for it can't be a
mere coincidence--as your taking the Mirador was--that you have made
the place over again just as I had it. I must have gone there in a
dream, and told you things in your sleep. Then you waked up, and
supposed that the ideas were all your own original fancies. The
strangest part is about the pictures. _I_ had Rossetti's 'Annunciation'
in my bedroom. I chose it myself, because of the lilies, and the little
flames on the angel's feet. I chose 'La Gioconda' too, because it
seemed to me that I should some day discover what made her smile so
secret, yet so enchanting, just as if, could one listen long enough,
one might catch the tune in the music of a brook or river. I used to
stand before the mirror of my dressing-table at the right of the big
window, and practise smiling like her, but I could never manage it. I
thought, if I could, when I grew up I should be able to make a man I
loved fall in love with me, even if he didn't care at first. Poor child
Me! I remembered that wish, when I wanted the One Man to love me, and
yet was too proud and ashamed to try and make him do it.

"Downstairs I had Carpaccio's dreaming St. Ursula, with the tiny dog
asleep, and the little slippers by the bedside. And you have that
picture hanging almost in the same place! Yes, I must unknowingly have
cast some influence upon you. That seems exquisite to me. I hope you do
not mind? If you don't, I shall try again in other ways. Indeed, I
shall begin at once by influencing you to do me a favor, I've been
waiting a long time to ask, and never quite found the courage to put
into words. Send me a photograph of yourself. I want it very much, to
make sure that my mental picture of you is right."

It was hard to refuse the first request she had ever spoken of as a
"favor." Denin was half tempted to buy the portrait of some
decent-looking fellow and label it "John Sanbourne"; but only half
tempted. He could not lie to Barbara, and was reduced to the excuse
that he "took a bad photograph." It would be better for her to keep the
friendly mental picture she had painted, rather than be disillusioned.
"This sounds as if I were vain," he added, "but u