"I am a painter who cannot paint;
In my life, a devil rather than saint.
"Believe me, we artists err ridiculously when we depart from the Greek standard. Your Whistler never achieved fame until he stopped reproducing bits of nature and devoted his superb talent to caricature."
"Caricature! Whistler!" she repeated.
"Name of a good little gray man! what else? Not portraits, surely? Wise that he was, he left those to the snapshot photographer; for even the camera can be given the artistic kink by the toucher-up. Have you forgotten, then, the rage of a stolid Englishman when he saw his wife as Whistler painted her? Oh, yes, art lies outrageously and lives long, like other fables."
"But Whistler might have been bluntly accurate, a thing that is not always pleasing. For instance," and here her voice sank a little, "it might not be altogether gratifying to my pride if some one was to analyze mercilessly the precise reasons of my present journey."
"Tiens! Let us do it. It will serve to pass the time."
She laughed and blushed. "Wait a little. We have many hours before us."
"You will never have a more appreciative audience, if only you could make your voice heard above this din."
"What are you driving at? Please tell me."