"She paints, so she said. Mon Dieu! Why do women paint?"
Victoria, roused, hotly defended the right of her sex to ply any honest art in the world that might bring them either pleasure or money.
"Mais la peinture!" Delorme's shoulder shrugged still higher. "It is an infernal thing, milady, painting. What can a woman make of it? She can only unsex herself. And in the end—what she produces—what is it?"
"If it pays the rent—isn't that enough?"
"But a young girl like that! What, in God's name, has she do to with paying the rent? Let her dance and sing—have a train of lovers—look beautiful!"
"The whole duty of woman!" laughed Victoria with a touch of scorn; "for our grandmothers."
"No: for all time," said Delorme stoutly. "Ask milord." He looked toward the house, and Victoria saw Tatham emerging. But she had no intention whatever of asking him. She rose hastily, excused herself on the score of needing a few minutes' rest, and went to meet her son.
"I forgot to tell you, mother," he said, as they approached each other,
"Faversham's coming this afternoon. I had a letter from him this morning.
He seems to be trying to make the old man behave."
"I shall be glad to see him."
Struck by something lifeless and jaded in the voice she loved, Victoria shot a glance at her son, then slipped her hand into his arm, and walked back with him to his library.