"Very!" I responded drily.
"Can't we get another copy of this Standard?"
"Not at Rivoli. Rome or Paris is the nearest place to send to, and then it will be at least four days in arriving. Besides, it's an old copy, and very likely no more are left."
"How provoking! You'll send to-morrow for another copy, won't you Frank?"
"Most readily. I, too, wish to see the end of this article."
"Why, you said just now that it was the essence of dulness."
"Yes, but you know what a variable mortal I am."
"How well the paper speaks of him!" said Daphne, taking up the Standard, and dwelling with more pleasure than I cared to see on the flattering language bestowed on the artist. "Angelo isn't vain, that's easy to be seen. Didn't you notice how reluctant he was this morning to speak of his picture? One had to draw it out of him, as it were. I am glad he has made a name at last. 'There are not wanting tongues,'" she continued, reading from the paper, "'to say that it is not the work of Vasari at all.' What a shame to say that!" she ejaculated with considerable indignation. "When his pictures were not very good the critics sneered at him and called him 'Il Divino'; and now that he has produced something good they suggest that some one else painted it for him. Just like the critics! Fancy Angelo being a descendant of the great Vasari, too!"
"No great honour," I returned, as eager to depreciate the artist as Daphne was to exalt him. "His great ancestor's pictures have always been considered daubs; and as for the famous book, Lives of the Painters, it is supposed not to have been written by Vasari."