Balthasar showed his white teeth.
"A pretty pastoral, messire. The study of a lady who had lost her way hunting, and craved my guidance this morning. A woman with the face and figure of a Dian."
"Ha, rogue of the brush, let us see it."
Balthasar passed the parchment into the other's hand. Flavian stared at it, flushed to the temples, rapped out an ejaculation in ecclesiastic Latin. His eyes devoured the sketch with the insatiable enthusiasm of a lover; words came hot off his tongue.
"Quick, man, quick, is this true to life?"
"As ruby to ruby."
"None of your idealisations?"
"Messire, but an hour ago that girl was sitting her horse where your destrier now stands."
"And you sketched this at her desire?"
"At my own, sire; it was courtesy for courtesy: I had shown her our handiwork here."