Boden waved a languid hand toward the smoke-wreathed phantom of Delorme. The circle round the two laughed, languidly also, for it was almost too hot laugh. The circle consisted of Victoria, Gerald Tatham, Mrs. Manisty, and Colonel Barton, who had reappeared at luncheon, in order to urge Tatham to see Faversham as soon as possible on certain local affairs.
"Oh! I give you my head in a charger," said Delorme, not without heat. "For you, Burne-Jones is 'pure' and I am 'decadent'; because he paints anemic knights in sham armour and I paint what I see."
"The one absolutely fatal course! Don't you agree?"
Boden turned smiling to Mrs. Manisty, of whose lovely head and soft eyes he was conscious through all the chatter.
The eyes responded.
"What do we see?" she said, with her shy smile. "Surely we only see what we think—or dream!"
"True!" cried Delorme; "but a painter thinks in paint."
"There you go," said Boden, "with your esoteric stuff. All your great painters have thought and felt with the multitude—painted for the multitude."
"Never." The painter jerked away his cigar, and sat up. "The multitude is a brute beast!"
"A just beast," murmured Boden.