me to myself, breaking my thoughts.
"My room interests you?"
She spoke softly, and with, I thought, a certain secret amusement.
I said: "Any room where any true artist creates is of interest. And you are a true artist, Madame
Mandilip."
"Now, how do you know that?" she mused.
It had been a slip. I said, quickly:
"I am a lover of art. I have seen a few of your dolls. It does not take a gallery of his pictures to make one
realize that Raphael, for example, was a master. One picture is enough."
She smiled, in the friendliest fashion. She closed the door behind me, and pointed to a chair beside the