He had always showed the slightest trace of his foreign accent. It went admirably with his shrug and mobile fingers.
“I am genuine in this,” she laughed, “that however much you know about pictures, about objets de vertu—women must remain for you and for all other men an unknown quantity.”
“Not when they are both,” he said gallantly.
“There are good and bad pictures—objects of virtue, excessively ugly——”
“Objects of virtue are usually excessively ugly, especially if they are women.”
“Thanks,” said Doris. “You’re most flattering. There’s something in the air of Scotland that makes one tell the truth.”
He laughed. “If Scotland is as merciless as that, I shall be off in the morning. I could imagine no worse purgatory than a place in which one always tells the truth. Lying is one of the highest arts of a mature civilization. I haven’t the slightest notion, nor have you, that either of us means a thing he says. We were all born to deceive—some of us do it in one way, some in another, but we all do it to the very best of our bent. For instance, you said a while ago that it was agreeable for you to see me. But I’m quite sure, you know, that it wasn’t.”
“It isn’t agreeable if you’re going to be horrid and cynical. Why shouldn’t I be glad to see you? You always stimulate my intelligence even if you don’t flatter it.”
The others had moved on to the library and they had the room to themselves.
“I don’t see how I could flatter it more than I have already done,” he said in a low tone of voice.