“And not even then,” the girl retorted. “I’d far rather these portraits came out of their frames and walked about, than promenade among the originals as we are doing now.”
“Why, I don’t suppose there’s one original present,” Mrs. Wyndwood remonstrated.
“Isn’t there?” queried Olive, in innocent accents. “I thought there were a lot, judging by the want of resemblance.”
“You are not up to date,” said Matthew Strang, smilingly. “Likeness is the last thing a portrait-painter goes for. Values, spots, passages, color schemes, all sorts of things take precedence of the likeness in their importance for art. The likeness is irrelevant to art. It concerns only the sitter—art concerns the world. A friend of mine, who edits an illustrated paper, which is the first to publish portraits of everybody who becomes anybody, contends that the number of persons who know any one man’s features is a negligible quantity. ‘All the public demands,’ he says, ‘is portraits.’ So you see your criticism leaves our withers unwrung.”
“Oh, do produce your catalogue, Nor,” said Miss Regan, flying off at a tangent for want of an answer. “I am dying to see the name of that thing, stuck right up there on the ceiling.” Mrs. Wyndwood, after protesting that nobody else was consulting a catalogue, which only made Olive more eager, fished out the booklet from some obscure pocket, and Olive turned the pages impatiently.
“It’s just like Miss Regan to want to look at the skied pictures,” her friend murmured to the painter.
“Oh, the poor man!” cried Miss Regan. “Listen, this is what the picture is called:
“ ‘Sweet Love—but oh! most dread desire of Love,
Life-thwarted. Linked in gyves I saw them stand,
Love shackled with Vain-Longing, hand to hand:
And one was eyed as the blue vault above:
But hope tempestuous like a fire-cloud hove
I’ the other’s gaze, even as in his whose wand
Vainly all night with spell-wrought power has spann’d
The unyielding caves of some deep treasure-trove.’
“Oh, the poor man! Fancy the indignity of having a long quotation skied!”
“What lovely lines!” exclaimed Mrs. Wyndwood, ignoring the humorous aspect which appealed to her companion. “Do they not express the idea perfectly, Mr. Strang?”