"The actual canvas-work—no; the elaboration of the idea which led to the work—yes; for it has been the outcome of a lifetime of thought." He spoke with all the air of an octogenarian. "I began the work about a year ago, a year this autumn, and finished it last—last Christmas," he hesitated at the word, as if reluctant to renew Daphne's sad memories, "and exhibited it at Paris in the beginning of spring."
"At Paris? We were at Paris in the beginning of spring. It is strange we should have missed you."
"When did you leave Paris?"
"March 31st—wasn't it, Frank?"
"Ah! we—" he stopped to change the plural pronoun to the singular, but, rapid as the correction was, it did not escape my notice—"I did not arrive in Paris till April 1st."
"The very day after we left. How odd! But why did you exhibit your picture in Paris, and not in London?"
"A prophet hath no honour in his own country," replied Angelo. "I think I may speak of England as my country, from the length of time I have lived in it. London has disappointed me so often that I resolved to try Paris this year. So I hired a gallery, and exhibited 'The Fall of Cæsar,' with some other pictorial compositions of mine. The people of Paris seem more appreciative of my talent—if I may be pardoned for using the word—than the Londoners."
"I have always considered the French a superficial people," I interjected.
"Oh no, they are not," returned the artist quietly.