Gudrun watched him with large, dark-filled eyes, for some moments. She seemed to be considering his very soul. Then she looked down, in silence.
“Why did you have such a young Godiva then?” asked Gerald. “She is so small, besides, on the horse—not big enough for it—such a child.”
A queer spasm went over Loerke’s face.
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t like them any bigger, any older. Then they are beautiful, at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—after that, they are no use to me.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Why not?” asked Gerald.
Loerke shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t find them interesting—or beautiful—they are no good to me, for my work.”
“Do you mean to say a woman isn’t beautiful after she is twenty?” asked Gerald.
“For me, no. Before twenty, she is small and fresh and tender and slight. After that—let her be what she likes, she has nothing for me. The Venus of Milo is a bourgeoise—so are they all.”