Miss Rowrer squinted with her eye, measured and made a few professional gestures, probably the only thing she retained from her art studies among so many social duties. She remarked a few things, showing refined tastes, and then looked at Helia as a connoisseur.
She admired her noble profile, like that of a marble Venus, her full neck and bare arms, and the sumptuous thickness of her hair over shoulders which would have thrown Phidias into despair.
“What success a young girl like that would have in society—if she belonged to society—” thought Miss Rowrer. “Ought not beauty like that to overcome all social distinctions?”
Helia appeared to Miss Rowrer as the splendid flowering of the Louvre, personifying in herself all the masterpieces heaped up beneath their feet—all that men have loved and made divine in marble or on canvas. At her feet roses and fuchsias breathed forth their fragrance, sweet as the Attic breeze.
“What you are doing there, Monsieur Phil, is very fine—a magnificent study,” Miss Rowrer said. “But it is not up to the model. Is it, Monsieur le Duc?”
The duke assented.
“Tell me, Monsieur Phil,” Miss Rowrer continued, “what is that thing on the ground, with your palette on top of it?”
She pointed to one of the busts which lined the walks.
“Those are busts,” Phil began.
“Yes, but of whom?” Ethel asked.