“It is a far country,” said Mlle. Urola. “It is a wild country. We have no opportunities to study art in my country. So I came to Paris.”
After that there was nothing for him to do but to be interested in her studies, and of them she told him willingly enough. She was very ambitious; she worked hard, but she made, she said, little progress.
“The people that have no feeling for any art I pity,” she said; “but, oh, I pity more those who want to be some sort of artist and cannot be! The desire without the talent, that kills.”
Chitta was coming back, bearing aloft a fresh dish. She bore it with an air more haughty than any she had yet assumed. Directing at Cartaret a glance of pride and scorn, she set before her mistress—Cartaret’s strawberries.
The Lady clapped her pretty hands. She laughed with delight.
“This,” she said, “is a surprise! I had not known that we were to have strawberries. It is so like Chitta. She is so kind and thoughtful, monsieur. Always she has for me some surprise like this.”
“It is a surprise,” said Cartaret. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”
She served the berries while Chitta stalked away.
“I find,” confessed the Lady in English, “that they are not so good below as they seemed on the top. You will not object?”
Oh, no: Cartaret wouldn’t object.