“And therefore you are an eminent woman. Well, the logic isn’t too lame. I’ll conclude, Camelia, that you may do quite a lot of harm in the world.”
“You don’t believe that a woman’s influence in politics can be for good?”
“Not the influence of a woman like you—a—a femme bibelot.”
“Good!” cried Camelia, gently clapping her hands.
“It is as that, you know, that these men court you. An objet d’art for their drawing-rooms.”
“You are mistaken, Alceste.”
“If I am mistaken—if they cherish ideals, they are unlucky devils.”
“No, Alceste, I am well justified in keeping my self-respect intact. It is not for my beaux yeux that I am courted—yes, yes—that wry look isn’t needed! I know in what hideously bad taste I am talking, but one can’t use artistic methods with you. As I say, I have my finger in any number of pies besides the pie political. You should see the respect in which I am held by the writers and painters. And I have good taste; I know that. You can’t deny it, since you helped it to grow. What other woman in London has a collection to equal mine? Dégas—Outamaro—Oh, Alceste, don’t look so funnily! Do you really imagine that I am not conscious of the baldness of my exposition? But what is the good of putting on a wig for you!”
“And all this to convince me——”
“Yes, to convince you.”