“So you thought you would play this hand without me?” said a familiar voice.
“Patsy!”
Where had he come from? We last heard of him at the hacienda of our friend the Argentino, in South America.
“Same old two-and-sixpence, always in at the death! There’s no end of a swell from the Celestial Empire on the stairs!”
“His Excellency the Minister of China,” Lorenzo announced.
The Chinese Minister, followed by his suite, walked into the studio on the stroke of ten, the first minute of the first day of the exhibition.
“Art, you see, is a matter of importance to these people,” Pasty murmured to me. “An invitation to a studio deserves to be treated with respect. When you show that tableau in America I wonder if the mayor, the governor, the sheriff, or even the hog-reeve, will take the trouble to come and see it. The representative of the Chinese Empire comes in person at the first possible moment. That’s my idea of a civilized people!”
The Minister and J. were talking in pantomime, none the less cordially for that. His Excellency wore seraphic clothes, had lovely polished manners; his hand was smooth as a roseleaf, his long nails were miraculous. The party stayed for some time and seemed pleased with their visit. After they had gone, leaving a faint perfume of sandalwood and straw-matting behind them, one of the younger men returned. (He was not of the Legation we heard afterwards). From the first he had seemed deeply impressed with the Diana; he hurried up to J., and pointing to the divine Huntress whispered:
“I beg your pardon, Mister; is that God?”
Our next visitor was a dark energetic Italian, with beautiful manners. He gave no name, none of us had any idea of who he was. He was deeply interested in the painting, looked at it from every point of view, and asked many questions about its final destination. He was not an artist, of that we felt sure, but he was a man with more than a dilettante’s interest in art. At the end of his visit, as he went towards the door, he saw the pens and paper lying on the table.