It was indeed a lovely head; an Italian girl, three quarter face, painted after the manner of Leonardo, with firm but delicate touches, and lights and shades of infinite subtlety, and possessing, like all that master’s portraits of women, a straightforward look that responds to the gazer’s, but which he seeks to interrogate in vain. The hair, brown with golden lights, was dressed in smooth plaits above the temples. The neck, somewhat long, emerged from a dark robe broadly indicated.
“I do not know this, Sylvestre?”
“No, it’s an old thing.”
“A portrait, of course?”
“My first.”
“You never did better; line, color, life, you have got them all.”
“You need not tell me that! In one’s young days, look you, there are moments of real inspiration, when some one whispers in the ear and guides the hand; a lightness of touch, the happy audacity of the beginner, a wealth of daring never met with again. Would you believe that I have tried ten times to reproduce that in etching without success?”
“Why do you try?”
“Yes, that is the question. Why? It’s a bit foolish.”
“You never could find such a model again; that is one reason.”