Craven felt rather nettled. He cared a good deal for the arts, and had no wish to be set among the Philistines.
“And—do you?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so. I’m not creative, but I’m very comprehending. Artists of all kinds feel that instinctively. That’s why they come round me in Paris.”
“Yes, you do understand!” he acknowledged, remembering her enthusiasm at the theatre. “But I think you are unscrupulous, too.”
He said it hardily, looking straight at her, and wondering what she had been doing that afternoon before she arrived at the hotel.
She smiled, making her eyes narrow.
“Then perhaps I am half-way to genius.”
“Would you be willing to sacrifice all the moral qualities if you could have genius in exchange?”
“You can’t expect me to say so. But it would be grand to have power over men.”
“You have that already.”