Looking through the heautoscope is unflattering, and Ainsley can see as much on Maartechen’s face. (Ergo, so can Maartechen.)
“Now, like a camera, it does add ten pounds,” she begins.
“I don’t care about that,” he says, not quite fuming. “But the little words floating around–they’re–is this a joke?”
“It shows you the self other people see,” she says. “Those are, um, translated from their impressions…”
“‘Preening?’ ‘Fickle?’ ‘Abrupt?’ Ridiculous! I don’t even know why I wanted this!”
He storms out of the shop. Ainsley sighs. She’d fix the dumb thing if she could stand to look through it.