"He's not absolutely unpleasant."
"I suppose he brightens them up—amuses them? Probably he has very high spirits. Perhaps he has the jar de veev." Miss Westbury had a private pronunciation of foreign expressions all her own. "It is unfortunate, but do you know one often sees that in unprincipled people, Isabella."
"He knows that he's not quite a gentleman, and is trying to laugh it off," said Mrs. Wyburn.
"Does he really? Dear, dear—what a sad thing!—and yet he certainly ought to be a gentleman, you know. On his mother's side he is connected with the——"
"That's not the point," snapped Mrs. Wyburn. "And of course I don't mean to say that—outwardly—he's not. His manner and appearance are distinguished. It's the soul that's vulgar."
"Ah, I see! You mean you're afraid he isn't one of nature's gentlemen?"
"Nature? How do you mean? He has nothing to do with nature. He's a man about town."
"Oh, I beg your pardon—I understood he was an artist. And sometimes, you know, artists are extremely fond of nature; in fact, far too fond."
"I believe all that painting is only done to throw dust in people's eyes—an excuse for idleness. Candidly, I don't like studios; I don't think they're respectable."
"I know what you mean; but still, after all"—Miss Westbury made a feeble attempt at a good-natured defence—"after all, if they all like it—I mean to say, if they're all so happy, why should we——"