"I suppose," she said, "this alteration was a matter of art, Balthasar?"
"A matter of heart, madame."
"So?"
"My Lord Flavian commanded it."
"And yonder face is taken from life?"
"Madame, I leave the inference to your charity."
She laughed a deep, cynical laugh, and went wandering round the chapel, looking at the frescoes, and swinging a little poniard by the chain that linked it to her girdle. Balthasar made a pretence of mixing colours on his palette. Worldly rogue that he was, he knew women, especially women of the Lady Duessa mould. He had a most shrewd notion as to what was passing in her mind. Morally, he was her abettor, being a person who could always take a woman's part, provided she were pretty. He believed women had no business with religion. To Balthasar, like fine glass, their frailty was their most enhancing characteristic. It gave such infinite scope to a discreet confessor.
The Lady Duessa strolled back again, and stood by the altar rails.
"Am I such a plain woman?" she asked.
"Madame!"