Michael hated to have his opinion of a painting invited, and he resented the painter’s jargon that always seemed to apply equally to the subject and the medium. It was impossible to tell from Miss Vine’s question whether she referred to Stella’s figure or to Ayliffe’s expenditure upon paint.
“I don’t think it’s very like Stella,” Michael replied, and consoled himself for the absence of subtlety or cleverness in such an answer by the fact that at least it was a direct statement of what he thought.
“I know what you mean,” said Clarissa, nodding seriously.
Michael hoped that she did. He could not conceive an affirmation of personal opinion delivered more plainly.
“You mean he’s missed the other Stella,” said Clarissa.
Michael bowed remotely. He told himself that contradiction or even qualified agreement would be too dangerous a proceeding with a person of Clarissa’s unhumorous earnestness.
“I said so when I first saw it,” cried Clarissa triumphantly. “I said, ‘my god, George, you’ve only given us half of her!’”
Michael took a furtive glance at the portrait to see whether his initial impression of a full-length study had been correct, and, finding that it was, concluded Clarissa referred to some metaphysical conception of her own.
From the amplification of this he edged away by drawing attention to the splendor of the moon.
“I know what you mean,” said Clarissa. “But I like sunshine effects best.”