I could not for the life of me tell whether she was really rather clever or merely very banal and commonplace.
"I had hoped," I rejoined, politely, "that my picture—as a beautiful work of art—would also possess that faculty."
Miss Jones now looked at the clock, and remarked that it was time to pose. She mounted the low stand and I resumed my palette and brushes, feeling decidedly snubbed. Carrington sauntered in shortly after, his forefinger in a book and a pipe between his teeth. He apologized to Miss Jones for the latter, and wished to know if she objected. Miss Jones's smile retained all its unabashed clearness as she replied:
"It is a rather nasty smell, I think."
Poor Carrington, decidedly disconcerted, knocked out his pipe and laid it down, and Miss Jones, observing him affably while she retained her pose to perfection, added: "I have been brought up to disapprove of smoking, you see; papa doesn't believe in tobacco."
Miss Jones's aplomb was certainly enough to make any man feel awkward, and Carrington looked so as he came up beside me and examined my work.
"By Jove! Fletcher," he said, "the resemblance is astonishing—and the lack of resemblance. That's the triumph—the material likeness, the spiritual unlikeness."
Indeed, Miss Jones could lay no claim to the "inspiration" of my work; in intrinsic character the face of my pretty scélérate was in no way Miss Jones's.
"Charming, charming," and Carrington's eye, passing from my canvas, rested on Miss Jones.
"Which?" I asked, smiling, and, of course, in an undertone.