"But if man abuses his power, may it not be taken from him altogether?" suggested Angela tranquilly, "If man, knowing that a life of self-indulgence destroys his intellectual capacity, still persists in that career, and woman, studying patiently to perfect herself, refuses to follow his example of vice, may it not happen that the intellectual forces may range themselves on the side of right rather than wrong, and invest woman with a certain supremacy in the end? It is a problem worth thinking of!"
Varillo looked sharply at her. Had she heard anything of his private life in Rome?—a life he kept carefully concealed from everyone who might be likely to report his little amusements at the Palazzo Sovrani? A slight, very slight touch of shame pricked him, as he noted the grace of her figure, the dainty poise of her head on her slim white throat—the almost royal air of dignity and sweetness which seemed to surround her,—there was no doubt whatever of her superiority to the women he generally consorted with, and for a moment he felt remorseful,—but he soon dismissed his brief compunction with a laugh.
"No, sweet Angela," he said gaily, "it is not worth thinking of! Believe me! I will not enter into any such profound discussions with you. My present time is too short, and your attractions too many! Why did you slip out of my arms so unkindly just now? Surely you were not offended? Comeback! Come, and we will go up to the great picture as lovers should, together—entwined in each other's arms!—and you shall then draw the mysterious curtain,—or shall I?"
She still hesitated. Then after a pause, she came towards him once more, the soft colour alternately flushing and paling her cheeks, as she laid her hand on his arm.
"You did not answer me," she said, "when I asked you just now if you believed that a woman's work could be as purposeful as a man's—sometimes indeed more so. You evaded the question. Why?"
"Did I evade it?" and Varillo took her hand in his own and kissed it,—"Dolcesza mia, I would not pain you for the world!"
A slight shadow clouded her face.
"You will not pain me," she answered, "except by not being true to yourself and to me. You know how I have worked,—you know how high I have set my ambition for your sake—to make myself more worthy of you; but if you do honestly think that a woman's work in art must always be inferior to a man's, no matter how ardently she studies—no matter even if she has so perfected herself in drawing, anatomy, and colouring as to be admitted the equal of men in these studies—if the result must, in your mind, be nevertheless beneath that of the masculine attainment, why say so,—because then—then—"
"Then what, my sweet philosopher?" asked Florian lightly, again kissing the hand he held.
She fixed her eyes fully on him. "Then," she replied slowly, "I should know you better—I should understand you more!"