Matthew smiled incredulously, for the studio was charming.
“You’re doing a portrait of Mrs. Wyndwood, I hear.”
“Who told you?”
“I was there this afternoon.”
“Yes? Did you see her friend Miss Regan?”
“She is always there.”
“I know. Isn’t she a jolly little girl?”
“She’s very odd,” said Matthew.
“Odd? You Philistine! She’s the most amusing girl in London. And so unaffected! You can say anything to her—talk about anything. No beastly prudishness. That’s what I like in a woman. The other day she was complaining gravely that a woman couldn’t be a burglar because it would land her in compromising situations. Therefore there never could be thorough equality of the sexes, she maintained. Wasn’t it quaint? She sits here smoking cigarettes while I paint that saintly friend of hers, and all the while rattles on in the most delightful fashion. What a flow of spirits! And, by Jove! the clever, biting things she says make your hair curl. I’m not in it with her, though I try hard. I draw her out to talk about her relations—it’s better than Thackeray. She’s no end of a swell, you know.”
“I know.”