"I have been doing a lot of thinking lately," she began slowly. "Why is it, I wonder, that artists in their love and appreciation of all that is beautiful seem to fail in—well—in moral beauty? Their lives don't correspond with their creed. Why should art, which ought to be such an ennobling pursuit, be attended on all sides by such enervating, demoralising effects?"
Miss Lorraine was silent. Then after a pause, she said—
"It is too often mere eye worship, perhaps."
"I am sick of it all!"
Jean's tone was vehement and bitter.
She went on—
"I haven't a friend left! Every one has failed and disappointed me."
"What about the Blakes?"
Jean looked uncomfortable.
"I have parted with them as friends. I am sorry for him, very, but I never wish to see her again. He is miserable, and she makes him so. I don't wish to tell tales of other people, Miss Lorraine, but her head has been turned by a—a horrid man. I don't think she means any harm, but she is for ever with him, and he is painting a picture with her. Do you remember how I told you the Blakes painted their pictures together?—she putting the landscape in, and her husband the figures? This man has taken her husband's place; he puts in his figures, and she paints the background. I hate his figures, and I hate his models. Mrs. Blake laughed, and told me I was prudish, but other people, as well as I, dislike Monsieur Tillôt's work. Oh, I can't tell you all; but I have felt lately that I will never touch a paint-brush again. The accessories of art in Paris have sickened me!"