El-Râmi had indeed heard of her,—she was an authoress of high repute, noted for her brilliant satirical pen, her contempt of press criticism, and her influence over, and utter indifference to, all men. Therefore he regarded her now with a certain pardonable curiosity as he made her his profoundest salutation, while she returned his look with equal interest.
“It is you who said that we must not give ourselves wholly away to the needs of humanity, is it not?” she said, letting her calm eyes dwell upon him with a dreamy yet searching scrutiny.
“I certainly did say so, Madame,” replied El-Râmi.—“It is a waste of life,—and humanity is always ungrateful.”
“You have proved it? But perhaps you have not tried to deserve its gratitude.”
This was rather a home-thrust, and El-Râmi was surprised and vaguely annoyed at its truth. Irene Vassilius still stood quietly observing him,—then she turned to Roy Ainsworth.
“There is the type you want for your picture,” she said, indicating Féraz by a slight gesture.—“That boy, depicted in the clutches of your Phryne, would make angels weep.”
“If I could make you weep I should have achieved something like success,” replied the painter, his sleepy eyes dilating with a passion he could not wholly conceal.—“But icebergs neither smile nor shed tears,—and intellectual women are impervious to emotion.”
“That is a mistaken idea,—one of the narrow notions common to men,” she answered, waving her fan idly to and fro.—“You remind me of the querulous Edward Fitzgerald, who wrote that he was glad Mrs. Barrett Browning was dead, because there would be no more Aurora Leighs. He condescended to say she was a ‘woman of Genius,’ but what was the use of it? ‘She and her Sex,’ he said, ‘would be better minding the Kitchen and their Children.’ He and his Sex always consider the terrible possibilities to themselves of a badly-cooked dinner and a baby’s screams. His notion about the limitation of woman’s sphere is man’s notion generally.”
“It is not mine,” said Lord Melthorpe.—“I think women are cleverer than men.”
“Ah, you are not a reviewer!” laughed Madame Vassilius—“so you can afford to be generous. But as a rule men detest clever women, simply because they are jealous of them.”