"Who is he? What is his name?" she asked.
The colonel considered a moment.
"I have a wonderful faculty for forgetting names," he said. "Favart has told me his name several times—let me see—I think—yes, I am sure—it is Deane!"
"I should like to see him," she said, "I have always taken a great deal of interest in artists."
"You will be very apt to see him," said the colonel; "he is in Paris now—taking a holiday, Favart says. People are making quite a fuss over him and his friend—the artist from whom I bought the other fine picture, you know. You will be sure to meet them in society."
"Do you think so?" she asked, twirling the leaves of her book nervously. The mention of artists and pictures always agitated her strangely. She could not forget the young artist who had gone to Rome to earn fame and fortune and died so soon. Her cheek paled with emotion, and her eyes darkened with sadness under their drooping lashes of golden-brown.
"Yes, there is not a doubt of it," he said. "In fact, I suppose we shall have to invite them, too, though I do not relish it after the fellow's incivility. But it is the privilege of greatness to be crusty, I believe. Anyway, the fashionables are all feting and lionizing him, so we cannot well slight him. I shall have Monsieur Favart bring him and his friend to our ball next week. What do you say, my dear?"
"Send him a card by all means," she answered, "I am quite curious to see him."
"Perhaps he may repent his refusal when he sees how beautiful you are, my darling," said the colonel, with a fond, proud glance into her face. "His ideal world of art, as he calls it, cannot contain anything more lovely than yourself."