“I only ask to be painted as I am, Sir Godfrey,” said Mrs. Barry, when she had risen after her courtesy in acknowledgment of Sir Godfrey's gallant compliment.
“As you are, madam? Ah, your ladyship is the most exacting of my sitters. As you are? Ah, my dear lady, you must modify your conditions; my art has its limitations.”
“Your art, but not your arts, sir. I protest that I am overwhelmed by the latter, as I am lost in admiration of the former,” said the actress, adopting a pose which she knew the painter would appreciate. “Alas, Sir Godfrey,” she added, “you do not well to talk to an actress of the limitations of art. What a paltry aim has our art compared with yours! I have had cravings after immortality—that is why I am here to-day.”
“'T is surely, then, the future of the painter that you have had at heart, my dear madam; you come with immortality shining in your face.”
“Nay, sir; Sir Godfrey Kneller will live forevermore in his long line of legitimate monarchs—ay, and others, perhaps not quite—”
“For God's sake, Mistress Barry! These are dangerous days; pray remember that I am the queen's limner.”
Sir Godfrey Kneller spoke in a whisper, touching her arm with the handles of his brushes as he glanced apprehensively around the painting-room of his house in Great Queen Street.
Mrs. Barry looked at him with a reckless gaiety in her eyes.
“What, have I said anything treasonable, anything to compromise the Court painter?” she cried.
“Walls have ears, my dear,” whispered the painter.