“It is a new style of the impressionist which I began this morning,” soberly.
“It looks very natural,” observed Flora.
“Natural!” Abbott dropped his mahl-stick.
“It is Vesuv’, is it not, on a cloudy day?”
This was too much for Abbott’s gravity, and he laughed.
“It was not necessary to spoil a good picture ... on my account,” said Flora, closing the lorgnette with a snap. Her great dark eyes were dreamy and contemplative like a cat’s, and, as every one knows, a cat’s eye is the most observing of all eyes. It is quite in the order of things, since a cat’s attitude toward the world is by need and experience wholly defensive.
“The Signora is wrong. I did not spoil it on her account. It was past helping yesterday. But I shall, however, rechristen it Vesuvius, since it represents an eruption of temper.”
Flora tapped the handle of her parasol with the lorgnette. It was distinctly a sign of approval. These Americans were never slow-witted. She swung the parasol to and fro, slowly, like a pendulum.
“It is too bad,” she said, her glance roving over the white walls of the villa.
“It was irrevocably lost,” Abbott declared.