"You'd be capable of trying to 'do' the human peacock. But excuse the audacity and the crudity of my speculations—it only proves my interest. What is it that you know you are?"
"Why, an artist. Isn't that a canvas?"
"Yes, an intellectual, but not a moral."
"Ah it's everything! And I'm a good girl too—won't that do?"
"It remains to be seen," Sherringham laughed. "A creature who's absolutely all an artist—I'm curious to see that."
"Surely it has been seen—in lots of painters, lots of musicians."
"Yes, but those arts are not personal like yours. I mean not so much so. There's something left for—what shall I call it?—for character."
She stared again with her tragic light. "And do you think I haven't a character?" As he hesitated she pushed back her chair, rising rapidly.
He looked up at her an instant—she seemed so "plastic"; and then rising too answered: "Delightful being, you've a hundred!"