In addition to these purely technical attainments, he must be an infallible judge of character, a diplomat, a sophist; he must have a silver tea-service, to say nothing of excellent Scotch and cigarettes. He must be able to write a sonnet or mix a salad, discuss the Book of Job or the plays of Bernard Shaw, follow the quotations of the stock market, the news of the day, and the fashions in women's hats. He must laugh when he feels dejected and look dejected when he feels like laughing. Indeed, there is nothing the fashionable portrait painter must not be able to do, except perhaps really—to paint.
Jack Perot could even do that, too, when he wanted to. The sketch of the Baroness Charny on his easel was really sincere—an honest bit of painting done with the freedom his other work lacked. Perhaps this was because it was not a commission, but just one of those happy interludes which sometimes occur amid the dreariest of measures. It pleased him, at any rate, and he stood off from it squinting delightedly through his monocle while the Baroness poured the tea.
"Really, madame, it's too bad it's finished. I was almost ready to believe myself back in Paris again," he said in French. "If one could only live one's life backward!"
"Oh, that wouldn't do—in a little while perhaps you would be quite poor."
"Yes," he sighed, "but think how much better I would paint." He stopped before the sketch and sighed again. "I think it's you, Baroness. You bring an echo of my vanished youth. Besides, I didn't paint you for money. That is the difference."
"You are going to paint that handsome Madame Wray?"
"Yes. She's coming in for tea to-day."
"They are wonderful, those people. He is so original—so farouche."
"He's too fond of talking about himself," he growled. "These people represent the Western type so common in New York—climbers—but New York will forgive much in the husband of Mrs. Wray."
"He doesn't care whether he's forgiven or not, does he?"