"Here, Circe," he said.
That was the time I was so angry; for, at the second, he meant all it comprehended. He saw, I suppose, for he added at once,—
"Or what was the name of the Witch of Atlas,
'The magic circle of whose voice and eyes
All savage natures did imparadise?'"
I wonder what made me think him mocking me. Frequently since then he has called me by that name.
"I don't know much about geography," I said. "Besides, these didn't come from there. Little Asian—the imp of my name, you remember—owned them."
"Ah?" with the utmost apathy; and turning to my father, "I saw the painting that enslaved you, Sir," he said.
"Yes, yes," said papa, gleefully. "And then why didn't you make me a copy?"
"Why?" Here he glanced round the room, as if he weren't thinking at all of the matter in hand. "The coloring is more than one can describe, though faded. But I don't think you would like it so much now. Moreover, Sir, I cannot make copies."
I stepped towards them, quite forgetful of my pride. "Can't?" I exclaimed. "Oh, how splendid! Because then no other man comes between you and Nature; your ideal hangs before you, and special glimpses open and shut on you, glimpses which copyists never obtain."