"He has caught that enigmatical expression that reminded me, when I first saw you, of Leonardo's 'Gioconda.'"
"I am pleased. You are the second person who has said that. I shall tell Brown."
"You may add also what I say," said Mordaunt, laughing, "that it doesn't do you a bit of justice."
"Oh! you are a flatterer and a Philistine, Sir Mordaunt. You prefer prettiness to individuality. The New School, which Brown represents here, rather courts ugliness; certainly would rather have ugliness than lose individuality."
"I know. I've seen a whole lot he did of Mrs. Van Winkle. I thought them all beastly. Mrs. Van Winkle fencing, apparently in a vapor bath; Mrs. Van Winkle yawning—no, singing, I suppose it is, because she is at the piano, with one hand up, and her little finger stuck out at right angles with her hand. Forgive me if I say it is all so damned affected."
"You talk of what you don't understand, Mordy," said Grace, impatiently. "Both those pictures are very, very clever."
Mrs. Courtly gave her low, rippling laugh.
"I like the fresh expression of opinion. One so seldom gets it. Mrs. Planter—you know the Planters?—stood dumb before my portrait for a minute or two. Then she said the chiaro-oscuro was wonderful."
"I should like it better if it were more chiaro and less oscuro," laughed Mordaunt in reply. "Is she a fool?"
"By no means. She is a dear woman, only she has not the courage of her opinions. She is so anxious to be amiable. They arrived this morning, and are gone up to their rooms to rest. I expect Quintin Ferrars presently, and two great friends of mine from Boston—George Laffan, the author, and Burton, a young musician, whose compositions I think charming."