“I have the authority,” said Cheriton, “of a pure taste unvitiated by Whig prejudice and Victorian tradition. Miss Burden, will you have the great goodness to summon Nature’s masterpiece so that Art, her handmaiden, may make an obeisance to her; and might I also suggest that you procure Lady Crewkerne’s knitting?”
Miss Burden, thrilled by the unmistakable impact of romance, waited with animation for permission to obey my lord.
“I will not have my niece tricked out like a play-actress,” said Caroline. “Cheriton, understand that clearly.”
Cheriton, feeling his position to be impregnable, was as cool as you please. As is the case with so many people, his coolness bordered upon insolence. Caroline was so much the slave of her worldly wisdom that in a case of this kind she would be compelled to bow the knee to an array of acknowledged experts. Besides, it was so easy for Cheriton to justify himself in the most dramatic manner. He pointed histrionically to the world-famous Duchess of Dorset.
“Caroline,” said he, “if you will take the advice of an old friend you will attend to your knitting. Three experts are present. They can be trusted to deal with this matter effectually. Indeed, I might say four. Miss Burden, I know you to be in cordial sympathy with the highest in whatever form it may manifest itself. Therefore I entreat you, particularly as the time of Monsieur Duprez and Madame Pelissier belongs not to themselves, nor to us, but to civilization, to produce our great work of Nature, in order that her handmaiden Art may deck her.”
Caroline’s hostile upper lip took a double curl, a feat which was the outcome of infinite practice in the expression of scorn.
“I hope you will not put ideas into the creature’s head, that’s all,” said she. “Fortunately she is such a born simpleton that it is doubtful whether she is capable of retaining any. Burden, you may fetch her.”
It was a charming April morning, and the sunshine was flooding the room. It made a canopy for Miss Perry as she came in simply and modestly through the drawing-room door. At once it challenged that wonderful yellow mane of hers that was the color of daffodils, which on its own part seemed to reciprocate the flashing caresses of the light of the morning. The yellow mane appeared to grow incandescent and shoot out little lights of its own. The glamor of pink and white and azure was very wonderful, too, as the sunlight wantoned with it in its own inimitable manner. Here was Juno indeed, and none recognized the fact so clearly as the Prince of the Morning.
Monsieur Duprez’s eyes sparkled; Madame Pelissier gave a little exclamation.
“You have here a great subject,” said Lord Cheriton to those rare artists. “And there you have the manner in which the great Gainsborough treated it.”