"That was a delicious creature that sat by me last night."
"Miss Penfold? She is one of your devotees."
"She paints, so she said. _Mon Dieu_! Why do women paint?"
Victoria, roused, hotly defended the right of her sex to ply any honest
art in the world that might bring them either pleasure or money.
"_Mais la peinture_!" Delorme's shoulder shrugged still higher. "It is an
infernal thing, milady, painting. What can a woman make of it? She can
only unsex herself. And in the end--what she produces--what is it?"
"If it pays the rent--isn't that enough?"
"But a young girl like that! What, in God's name, has she do to with
paying the rent? Let her dance and sing--have a train of lovers--look
beautiful!"
"The whole duty of woman!" laughed Victoria with a touch of scorn; "for
our grandmothers."
"No: for all time," said Delorme stoutly. "Ask milord." He looked toward
the house, and Victoria saw Tatham emerging. But she had no intention
whatever of asking him. She rose hastily, excused herself on the score of
needing a few minutes' rest, and went to meet her son.
"I forgot to tell you, mother," he said, as they approached each other,
"Faversham's coming this afternoon. I had a letter from him this morning.
He seems to be trying to make the old man behave."
"I shall be glad to see him."
Struck by something lifeless and jaded in the voice she loved, Victoria
shot a glance at her son, then slipped her hand into his arm, and walked
back with him to his library.
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