THE BELDONALD HOLBEIN
All this, for reasons, had brought my guest to her feet; but her eyes, while we talked, had never once followed the direction of mine. "You call her a Holbein?"
"Outreau did, and I of course immediately recognised it. Don't you? She brings the old boy to life! It's just as I should call you a Titian. You bring him to life."
She couldn't be said to relax, because she couldn't be said to have hardened; but something at any rate on this took place in her—something indeed quite disconnected from what I would have called her. "Don't you understand that she has always been supposed———?" It had the ring of impatience; nevertheless, on a scruple, it stopped short.
I knew what it was, however, well enough to say it for her if she preferred. "To be nothing whatever to look at? To be unfortunately plain—or even if you like repulsively ugly? Oh yes, I understand it perfectly, just as I understand—I have to as a part of my trade—many other forms of stupidity. It's nothing new to one that ninety-nine people out of a hundred have no eyes, no sense, no taste. There are whole communities impenetrably sealed. I don't say your friend is a person to make the men turn round in Regent Street. But it adds to the joy of the few who do see that they have it so much to themselves. Where in the world can she have lived? You must tell me all about that—or rather, if she'll be so good, she must."
"You mean then to speak to her———?"
I wondered as she pulled up again. "Of her beauty?"
"Her beauty!" cried Lady Beldonald so loud that two or three persons looked round.
"Ah, with every precaution of respect!" I declared in a much lower tone. But her back was by this time
35
