“How beautiful you are!” she said frankly—“Everybody tells you this of course,—still, I cannot help joining in the general chorus. To me, a lovely face is like a lovely flower,—I must admire it. Beauty is quite a divine thing, and though I am often told that the plain people are always the good people, I never can quite believe it. Nature is surely bound to give a beautiful face to a beautiful spirit.”
Sibyl, who had smiled with pleasure at the first words of the open compliment paid her by one of the most gifted of her own sex, now flushed deeply.
“Not always, Miss Clare,”—she said, veiling her brilliant eyes beneath the droop of her long lashes—“One can imagine a fair fiend as easily as a fair angel.”
“True!” and Mavis looked at her musingly,—then suddenly laughing in her blithe bright way, she added—“Quite true! Really I cannot picture an ugly fiend,—for the fiends are supposed to be immortal, and I am convinced that immortal ugliness has no part in the universe. Downright hideousness belongs to humanity alone,—and an ugly face is such a blot on creation that we can only console ourselves by the reflection that it is fortunately perishable, and that in course of time the soul behind it will be released from its ill-formed husk, and will be allowed to wear a fairer aspect. Yes, Lady Sibyl, I will come to Willowsmere; I cannot refuse to look upon such loveliness as yours as often as I may!”
“You are a charming flatterer!” said Sibyl, rising and putting an arm round her in that affectionate coaxing way of hers which seemed so sincere, and which so frequently meant nothing—“But I confess I prefer to be flattered by a woman rather than by a man. Men say the same things to all women,—they have a very limited répertoire of compliments,—and they will tell a fright she is beautiful, if it [p 319] happens to serve their immediate purpose. But women themselves can so hardly be persuaded to admit that any good qualities exist either inwardly or outwardly in one another, that when they do say a kind or generous thing of their own sex it is a wonder worth remembering. May I your study?”
Mavis willingly assented,—and we all three went into the peaceful sanctum where the marble Pallas presided, and where the dogs Tricksy and Emperor were both ensconced,—Emperor sitting up on his haunches and surveying the prospect from the window, and Tricksy with a most absurd air of importance, imitating the larger animal’s attitude precisely, at a little distance off. Both creatures were friendly to my wife and to me, and while Sibyl was stroking the St Bernard’s massive head, Mavis said suddenly,
“Where is the friend who came with you here first, Prince Rimânez?”
“He is in St Petersburg just now,”—I answered—“But we expect him in two or three weeks to stay with us on a visit for some time.”
“He is surely a very singular man,”—said Mavis thoughtfully—“Do you remember how strangely my dogs behaved to him? Emperor was quite restless and troublesome for two or three hours after he had gone.”
And in a few words, she told Sibyl the incident of the St Bernard’s attack upon Lucio.