“Do you think so?” murmured the flattered artist.
“Yes; it is a most delicate art, needing great distinction of style. It cannot be handled by masons in the art of painting.”
For twelve years the Countess had encouraged the painter's leaning toward the distinguished in art, opposing his occasional return to the simplicity of realism; and, in consideration of the demands of fashionable modern elegance, she had tenderly urged him toward an ideal of grace that was slightly affected and artificial.
“What is the Princess like?” she asked.
He was compelled to give her all sorts of details—those minute details in which the jealous and subtle curiosity of women delights, passing from remarks upon her toilet to criticisms of her intelligence.
Suddenly she inquired: “Does she flirt with you?”
He laughed, and declared that she did not.
Then, putting both hands on the shoulders of the painter, the Countess gazed fixedly at him. The ardor of her questioning look caused a quiver in the pupils of her blue eyes, flecked with almost imperceptible black points, like tiny ink-spots.
Again she murmured: “Truly, now, she is not a flirt?”
“No, indeed, I assure you!”