"Yes, for one month, two months, perhaps six months. The creations of painters last for centuries."
"That is true," said Dora, looking at Philip.
"Shakespeare and Molière are still being played with success," said Philip.
"Yes, I grant you these two. Human nature is still and always will be what it was in their time. There are no new passions, follies, to portray since their time; but against those two names which you cite ... real demi-gods ... I could give you two hundred painters and sculptors dating from antiquity down to the present day."
Dora was delighted with the turn the conversation had taken. It seemed to her that Philip no longer enthused over his art, and she tried her utmost to rekindle the sacred fire that threatened to go out. So, encouraging Lorimer to continue in the same strain, she said—
"Yes, you are right. It is painting that expresses all that is beautiful in the world."
"Especially Philip's art," said Lorimer, seeming to grasp Dora's meaning from the warmth with which she spoke. "You paint nature, my dear friend, flowers, portraits ... you do not inflict the nude upon us, as do so many of your brothers in art, who show themselves but poor imitators of the French school, servum pecus."
"But nature is surely always beautiful, wherever she is found," said Dora.
"The ideal, yes," said Lorimer; "but it is the realistic method of treatment, in most pictures, that displeases me. Perhaps I am a little puritanical; but what can you expect? I'm English!"
"But there is no ideal nature, there is only true nature," said Dora. "Call it realism, if you wish: what is real is true, and what is true is beautiful."