"I see." Audrey lay back in her chair and gazed dreamily at the painting, while the painter gazed at her. Was he trying to find out the secret of that individuality?
Audrey turned to Katherine with her radiant smile.
"Do you paint like this, too?"
"No, I'm a portrait-painter."
"Ah! that means that you'd rather paint what you see?"
"It means that I have to paint a great deal that I'd rather not see."
"But your brother is an idealist—aren't you, Mr. Haviland?"
"Probably. I've always noticed that when people call you an idealist, it's a polite way of saying you're a failure. I may be an idealist; I don't know, and I'm afraid I don't much care."
"I'm sure you do care; and you must have your ideals."
"Oh, as for that, I've kept as many as seven of them at a time. But I never could tame them, and when it comes to taking their portraits the things don't know how to sit properly. Look at that woman's soul, for instance"—and Ted pointed to his masterpiece with disgust.