"I don'tknow that he's very clever, " she said one day, when I was looking at thephotograph, "but I know he's good. He has a charming character. "

The daughterwas fourteen. Her hair, thick and dark like her mother's, fell over hershoulders in fine profusion, and she had the same kindly expression and sedate,untroubled eyes.

"They'reboth of them the image of you, " I said.

"Yes; Ithink they are more like me than their father. "

"Why haveyou never let me meet him?" I asked.

"Would youlike to?"

She smiled, hersmile was really very sweet, and she blushed a little; it was singular that awoman of that age should flush so readily. Perhaps her naivete was her greatestcharm.

"You know,he's not at all literary, " she said. "He's a perfect philistine."

“我想他不算太聪明，”有一天我正在看照片的时候，思特里克兰德太太说，“但是我知道他是个好孩子。性格很可爱。”

女儿十四岁。头发同母亲一样，又粗又黑，浓密地披在肩膀上。温顺的脸相，端庄、明净的眼睛也同母亲活脱儿一样。

“他们两个人长得都非常象你，”我说。

“可不是，他们都更随我，不随他们的父亲。”

“你为什么一直不让我同他见面？”

“你愿意见他吗？”

她笑了，她的笑容很甜，脸上微微泛起一层红晕；象她这样年纪的女人竟这么容易脸红，是很少有的。也许她最迷人之处就在于她的纯真。

“你知道，他一点儿也没有文学修养，”她说，“他是个十足的小市民。”