“How do you know that?” she cried, startled.
“I was calling in Devonshire Place. Her mother told me. I am not necromantic.”
His swift uniting of the two names perturbed her. She swallowed her oysters unreflectingly, thus missing one of her little pleasures in life, for she adored oysters.
“Which pictures did you buy?” she asked.
“The one I coveted was not for sale. It was a portrait of Miss Hardacre. I don't think he meant me to see it, but I came upon him unawares. Have you seen it?” They discussed the portrait for a while. Connie repeated her former question. Weever replied that he had bought the picture of the faun looking at the vision of things to come, and the rejected Italian study. Connie expressed her gladness. They contained Jimmie's best work.
“Very fine,” Weever admitted, “but just failing in finish. Nothing like the portrait.”
There was an interval. Connie exchanged remarks with old Colonel Pawley, her right-hand neighbour, who expatiated on the impossibility of consuming Bortsch soup with satisfaction outside Russia. The soup removed, Weever resumed the conversation.
“Have you read your Lamartine thoroughly? I have. I was sentimental once. He says somewhere, Aimer pour être aimé, c'est de l'homme; mais aimer pour aimer, c'est presque de l'ange. I remember where it comes from. It was said of Cecco in 'Graziella.' Our friend Padgate reminds me of Cecco. Do you care much about your cousin Morland King, Mrs. Deering?”
Connie, entirely disconcerted by his manner, looked at him beseechingly.
“Why do you ask me that?”