“Ugh!” said the Belletaille to Ventrillon, “it continues! It is disgusting! It is unspeakable! It is——”
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Ventrillon, “why speak of her? She exists only to be ignored by you.”
The Belletaille gave him her grateful full face. “I knew it the moment I saw you,” she declared. “You are a mystic, and I think mysticism is so fascinating. You have the eyes. I am a mystic myself. Everybody notices it. Sometimes I think we mystics alone know the true soul of things. What a truth that is, ‘She exists only to be ignored by me!’ You are a painter, aren’t you? It is these young ones, these young mystics, who do the great things. Why do you not paint my portrait?”
Ventrillon gulped.
“I dared not ask it,” he said.
“Then that is settled. We shall begin to-morrow afternoon. But come, take me to my car. It is evident that these surroundings are not for us. Ah, Madame Sutrin,” she said sweetly as she took her hostess’s hand, “it has been so interesting! One finds so many people at your house one would never dream of meeting anywhere else.”
When she passed the minister, Ventrillon heard her hiss something into his face. It sounded extraordinarily like, “Never speak to me again!” But Ventrillon was never sure of this, for the jazz band had begun anew. Nevertheless, he distinctly saw little Mme. Ribot look up from under her red hair to observe this brief passage, and then down to contemplate a large wet stain on her satin skirt with a smile of enormous satisfaction.
“After all,” reflected Ventrillon, “the great are all ridiculous. It is easier than I had thought.”
FOURTH REFLECTION
At the curb Ventrillon handed the Belletaille into her limousine.