Immediately to the left of Miss Perry, intervening between her and Aunt Caroline, was the object that claimed for the moment the whole of Cheriton’s attention. Rightly so, indeed, for it was nothing less than one of the world’s masterpieces. It was a full-length portrait in a massive gilt frame: a truly regal canvas in the full meridian splendor of English art. Under the picture, in bold letters, was the magic legend, “Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough.”
Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, was a young girl in her teens, in an inordinately floppy hat of the period. Her countenance, ineffably simple, was a glamor of pink and white; her lips were slightly parted; the wonderful blue eyes were gazing into vacancy; and one finger was unmistakably in her mouth.
Cheriton, having fixed his glass with some elaboration, slowly backed a few paces, and yielded to the pose he always affected in the presence of this noble work.
In silence he stood to absorb the poetry, the innocence, the appeal of youth. He sighed profoundly.
“Caroline,” he said, “I would give a whole row of Georgiana Devonshires for this. In my humble judgment it has never been equaled.”
“Grandmamma Dorset wears well,” said Caroline, with a grim chuckle.
“It ought to be called ‘Simplicity’; it ought to be called ‘Innocence.’ Upon my word of honor, Caroline, I always feel when I look at the divine Araminta that I want to shed tears.”
Caroline Crewkerne snorted.
“Cheriton,” said she, “I have noticed that when a man begins life as a cynic he invariably ends as a sentimentalist.”
“Caroline,” said her old friend, sighing deeply, “you are a pagan. You have no soul.”