"Yes," she said; "I heard you yesterday. If I remember rightly, you had arrived at the conclusion that all was vanity."
I held out a cunningly carved slice of bread-and-butter.
"George," I said, "was responsible for the song, and Solomon for the sentiments. I am innocent."
She accepted both the bread-and-butter and the apology.
"You are an artist," she said, "to say nothing of being a knight-errant. One cannot have all the talents."
"When I was a small boy," I remarked, "I remember I had a nurse who used to check my incipient tendency to sarcasm by saying warningly: 'Hush, Master Jack! No one will love you if you talk like that.'"
"No, no!" she cried, with a protesting little laugh. "I really meant it for a compliment. I paint very badly myself, but I know good work when I see it. Yours is delightful."
"I only hope the excellent Mr. Rosenthal will share your opinion," I said.
She puckered her forehead in a charming expression of mock bewilderment.
"And who is Mr. Rosenthal? He sounds very rich."