"Pretty well."
"Only that? I am sorry to hear you say so."
"Spanish painting has a character peculiar to itself," resumed Mr. St. John. "At least, I have always thought so. The artists were not free: they were compelled to bend to those laws that restricted their pencils to delineations of religious subjects. Had they been at liberty to exercise their genius unfettered, they would have left more valuable mementos behind them. Imagination is the very life and soul of painting; curb that, and you can expect but little."
"I suppose you are right," said Madame de Castella.
Madame Baret came in, and joined the party. She was related to the Count d'Estival. Some years before, her husband, who was then a small proprietor, risked his money in a speculation, and was ruined. M. d'Estival stepped in, and offered them an asylum with him. They accepted it, upon condition that they should be permitted to be useful. Madame became the active mistress and manager of the house, her husband the superintendent of the land and farm. But though they did make themselves useful, both indoors and out, somewhat after the manner of upper servants, they were gentlepeople still, and received due consideration and respect.
"Who is that painting by?" inquired Madame de Castella, stopping before a group of portraits.
"It is a copy of one of Van Dyck's," said Mr. St. John. "There hangs the original. But it is admirably executed."
"It is, indeed," replied Madame de Castella. "To my unpractised eye, it looks equal to the original."
"Almost," assented Mr. St. John. "Except in the transparency of the skin, and there Van Dyck cannot be rivalled."
"Whose is that gorgeous landscape?"