He leaned over the back of her chair, his lips close to her ear. "You know better than that. But I'm such hopeless material to work with. These people, the kind of people one has to paint—they want lies. It gives me a diabolical pleasure to tell them the truth. I'll never succeed. O Madame! I'm afraid you'll have to give me up."
"And Hermia?" she asked.
He laughed.
"An enfant terrible! Has she no parent—or guardians? Do you encourage this sort of thing?"
"I—Dieu! No! She will kill herself next. I have no influence. She does exactly as she pleases. Advice merely decides her to do the opposite thing."
"It's too bad. She's quite human."
"Oh."
The Countess Olga examined him through her long lashes.
"Are you alone here?"
"Yes. I'm camping."