I felt buffeted by her complacent crudity.
"Velasquez had no soul," she added.
"No soul! Why he paints life, character, soul, everything! Copied! What of his splendid decorativeness, his colour, his atmosphere?" My ejaculations left her calm unruffled.
"Ah, but all that doesn't make the world any better," she returned, really with an air of humouring a silly materialism; and as she went back to her pose she added, very kindly, for my face probably revealed my injured feelings:
"You see I have rather serious views of life."
"Miss Jones—really!" I laid down my palette. "I must beg of you to believe that I have, too—very serious."
Gently Miss Jones shook her head, looking, not at me, but down into the mirror. This effect of duty fulfilled, even in opposition, was most characteristic.
"I cannot believe it," she said, "else why, when you have facility, talent, and might employ them on a higher subject, do you paint a mere study of a vain young lady?"
This interpretation of Manon startled me, so lacking was it in comprehension.
"Manon Lescaut was more than a vain young lady, Miss Jones."