"I am true to the fancy of the hour."
"You express my views in other words. Beauty depends on human caprice, and changes with the times."
"Look at that statue," said Savrola suddenly, indicating a magnificent marble figure of Diana which stood in the middle of the room surrounded by ferns. "More than two thousand years have passed since men called that beautiful. Do we deny it now?" There was no answer and he continued: "That is true beauty of line and form, which is eternal. The other things you have mentioned, fashions, styles, fancies, are but the unsuccessful efforts we make to attain to it. Men call such efforts art. Art is to beauty what honour is to honesty, an unnatural allotropic form. Art and honour belong to gentlemen; beauty and honesty are good enough for men."
There was a pause. It was impossible to mistake the democratic tone; his earnestness impressed them. Molara looked uneasy. The Ambassador came to the rescue.
"Well, I shall continue to worship the goddess of beauty, whether she be constant or variable"—he looked at the Countess; "and to show my devotion I shall offer up a waltz in that sacred fane, the ball-room."
He pushed his chair back, and, stooping, picked up his partner's glove, which had fallen to the floor. Everyone rose, and the party separated. As Savrola walked back to the hall with Lucile, they passed an open doorway leading to the garden. A multitude of fairy lights marked out the flower-beds or hung in festoons from the trees. The paths were carpeted with red cloth; a cool breeze fanned their faces. Lucile paused.
"It is a lovely night."
The invitation was plain. She had wanted to speak to him, then, after all. How right he was to come,—on constitutional grounds.
"Shall we go out?" he said.
She consented, and they stepped on to the terrace.