“I like him,” said Miss Mason succinctly.
“So do I,” returned Barnabas. “He is so refreshingly clean. He always looks as if he had just completed a toilette in which baths, aromatic soap, and hair-brushes had played an important part.”
“Yet he manages to escape looking shiny,” said Miss Mason.
“We all take baths,” went on Barnabas thoughtfully; “at least, I hope so. But with the majority of people one has to take the fact of their scrupulous cleanliness more on faith than by sight. With Paul it is so extraordinarily apparent.”
“What is he doing at the moment?” asked Miss Mason.
“Painting the portrait of a certain Duchessa di Corleone. I happened to see the lady leaving the studio. She is remarkably beautiful. Paul has the devil’s own luck. I have to spend my time painting middle-aged women with hair groomed by their maids till they look like barbers’ blocks, or pink-cheeked girls with a perpetual smile.”
“Don’t paint them if you dislike doing it,” said Miss Mason.
“Dear Aunt Olive, I must.”
“No such thing. You have an excellent private income.”
“I grant you that. It is, however, not the point. I am a portrait painter. It is my métier. To be a portrait painter one must paint portraits. The two things are inseparable.”