“Is it not beautiful?”
“Is not what beautiful?”
“The painting.”
“I cannot speak of these matters now. For the moment I am at war with virtû. It may be divine—perhaps it is so. One thing I feel—the impotence of the artist. What he has succeeded in en-canvassing speaks only to my soul of a more radiant loveliness—that of motion, of thought, of heart—for which the pencil has no outline, the pallet no dye.”
“You are an enigma, and my query is unanswered. I will put it in another form. Is she not beautiful?”
“She is.”
“How did you become possessed of the picture?”
“I saw it in the exhibition, and as they refused to sell it to me, I cut it out and brought it away.”
Mrs. Althorpe fell back into her chair, overpowered by irresistible laughter at the oddness of the incident, and the solemn gravity with which Nivernois stood eyeing the picture. An idea occurred to her by which she might give this matter a turn to her mind.
“I cannot imagine, of course,” said she, “whose portrait it is. But if you will come to my house to-night, I shall have some young ladies there, and it is possible that the fair original may be among them. We shall have tableaux vivants, and I think you will find it pleasant.”