"An hour, if you insist upon accuracy of statement," replied Gouache with a shade of annoyance.
He had an idea, and like most people whom fate occasionally favours with that rare commodity he did not like to be disturbed in the realisation of it. He was already squeezing out quantities of tawny colours upon his palette.
"I am a passive instrument," said Madame d'Aragona. "He does what he pleases. These men of genius—what would you have? Yesterday a gown from Worth—to-day a tiger's skin—indeed, I tremble for to-morrow."
She laughed a little and turned her head away.
"You need not fear," answered Gouache, daubing in his new idea with an enormous brush. "Fashions change. Woman endures. Beauty is eternal. There is nothing which may not be made becoming to a beautiful woman."
"My dear Gouache, you are insufferable. You are always telling me that I am beautiful. Look at my nose."
"Yes. I am looking at it."
"And my mouth."
"I look. I see. I admire. Have you any other personal observations to make? How many claws has a tiger, Don Orsino? Quick! I am painting the thing."
"One less than a woman."