"I knew those flute-players annoyed her," said Castleton. "Down with creative criticism. She's nothing but a lady with a bad temper."
"Of course she is," said Jenny.
"Would you smile, Jenny, if Ronnie here painted you with a gramophone behind a curtain?"
"No, I shouldn't."
"Catch the fleeting petulance, and you become as famous as Leonardo, my Ronnie."
Philip IV was voted a little love with rather too big a head, and the Prince of Orange was a dear. Botticelli's Venus was not alluded to. The acquaintanceship was not considered ripe enough to justify any comment in that direction; although later on Jenny, her eyes pectinated with mirth and flashing wickedly, sang, pointing to the embarrassed goddess: "She sells seashells on the seashore." Primavera concluded the tour of inspection, and by some Primavera herself was thought to be not unlike Jenny.
"She's more like one of those angels with candles at Berlin," said Ronnie Walker.
"Anyway," said Maurice, with a note of satisfaction, "she's a Botticelli."
"Well, now you've all settled my position in life," said Jenny, "what's Irene?"
But somehow it was not so interesting to discover Irene's prototype, and her similarity to the ideal of any single old master was left undecided.