“Ah! if I were interested in a portrait-painter I should certainly have my portrait painted, but that type doesn’t appeal to me, and I hate having to talk art and look at daubs that are not half as nice as the things they represent. We hate one another most cordially. Two poseurs together, you know. It takes a poseur to catch a poseur.”
Claudia stopped in the act of raising a glass of hock to her lips. “You consider him a poseur?”
“Haven’t you spotted that?” drawled Rhoda. “I wish I could afford a decent cook. No, you wouldn’t. You think he has an artistic soul. I am certain he hasn’t. But if you don’t rub the veneer too hard I daresay it won’t come off while you are playing with it.”
“I don’t see why you call him a poseur,” returned Claudia. “Unless you think we are all poseurs and—well, one has to wear clothing!”
“I’ll call it acting if you like it better. Wasn’t it Meissonier who said, ‘Painters always have in them something of the actor, they have the instinct for attitude and gesture’? But he’s clever, he acts rather well. So do I. And a pose is justified by its cleverness.”
She leaned forward on the table and smiled in her hostess’s face.
“My dear, don’t think I am trying to say that his love for you is a pose. But—well, naturally. You are very handsome and an excellent companion. Shall I tell you what he is not?”
“If you like,” said Claudia, with an affectation of indifference.
“He is not working for art’s sake. He is not generous, except to himself. He is not quite a gentleman—yes, let me finish—either by birth or natural feeling. And he is not—good enough for you, ma chère.”
“There is hardly any question——” began Claudia hotly.