"You won't be offended?"
She regarded him silently; her brows became slightly contracted.
"Such a man as you would not willingly offend, I think."
"No, of course not. I didn't mean that sort of thing. But you might not like what I have to say."
"If I merit what you say about me, it doesn't matter whether I like it or not, does it? Tell me."
He laughed:
"Well, then, if I were going to paint you, I'd first ask you to wash your cheeks."
She sat silent, humiliated, the painful color deepening and waning under the rouge.
"And," he continued pleasantly, "after your face had been well scrubbed, I'd paint you in your black gown, cuffs and apron of a caissière, just as I first saw you there behind the desk, one foot swinging, and your cheek resting on your hand.
"But behind your eyes, which looked out so tranquilly across the tumult of the cabaret, I'd paint a soul as clean as a flame.... I'm wondering whether I'd make any mistake in painting you that way, Philippa?"