For a moment I stared at her in sheer astonishment. Then with a beating heart I took the canvas in my hand; for although she had not shown the same hostility towards me that my lady had done, yet never before had she addressed me of her own free will.
“You will let me see it?” I said humbly.
“You have been a great traveller, I believe, sir,” she answered; “and therefore your opinion should carry weight.
“But you do not speak!” I held the painting from me, the better to observe it; though had it been the finest masterpiece that Rome or Florence could produce, I doubt if in that moment I had marked its beauty; for my head was in a whirl. Was the barrier between myself and these women to be broken down at last?
“Madam,” I replied hastily, “to say that it is beautiful, is only——”
“To flatter me!” she interrupted quickly, as I hesitated, racking my brains for a phrase she might not deem extravagant. “And,” she continued lightly, “is it your custom, sir, to judge of a picture’s excellence upside down?”
“Madam,” I stammered in utter confusion, “I crave your pardon——”
“Fie, sir!” she continued, smiling. “Do you not know that to wound a woman’s vanity is to make an enemy for life? And I had inferred,” she continued in the same tone of raillery, glancing at the roses in my hand, “that you were a lover of Nature yourself.”
“If, madam,” I said hesitatingly, “you would permit me in some slight measure to retrieve my unfortunate error, and would so far honour me as to accept this humble tribute of my regret——”
“I love flowers,” she said simply, taking my proffered gift and raising it to her face, perhaps to hide her heightened colour.