“He makes very bad butter,” said Miss Regan.
“He is the greatest spiritual force in Russia,” Mrs. Wyndwood said, sweetly. “And Dolkovitch is doing much to extend his influence in England. I wish you knew Dolkovitch, Mr. Strang.”
“Why, would he make me do better pictures?” he asked, playfully, struggling a little against the obsession of her sweet seriousness.
“I will reserve my opinion till I have seen your latest manner. Though I confess I don’t find the title, ‘The Triumph of Bacchus,’ a hopeful augury of noble work. But do tell me where it is—or must I consult the catalogue? Miss Regan made me bring one.”
“It is in this very room.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it’s rather a compliment. The Academicians generally reserve the big room—or at least the line—for their own works. But it is cruel of you to leave me so soon.”
“How subtle, Nor,” said Miss Regan. “Of course he cannot be seen looking at his own picture.”
“Do let us go where the crowd is thinner,” he pleaded.
“Than round your picture?” queried Miss Regan, naïvely.