“Yes, I am an artist,” he said, considering her curiously.
“I am sorry,” she said, “no, not sorry—only unpleasantly surprised. You see I am so tired of art—and I thought you looked so—so wholesome——”
He began to laugh—a modulated laugh—rather infectious, too, for Aphrodite bit her lip, then smiled, not exactly understanding it all.
“Why do you laugh?” she asked, still smiling. “Have I said something I should not have said?”
But he replied with a question: “Have you found art unwholesome?”
“I—I don’t know,” she answered with a little sigh; “I am so tired of it all. Don’t let us talk about it—will you?”
“It isn’t often I talk about it,” he said, laughing again.
“Oh! That is unusual. Why don’t you talk about art?”
“I’m much too busy.”
“D—doing what? If that is not very impertinent.”