“The question whether even the most emancipated of young women ever has art in her soul,” said Redgrave, with a quiet smile.
“I am going to paint a picture some day that will astonish you,” replied Clytie, with a laugh.
“Ah! So is everyone. When will that some day be? I hardly know a painter or a writer or a musician that has not something he is going to do some day--a three-act drama all ready, bar transcription on paper--a masterpiece all complete, bar the mechanical transference to canvas.”
“Oh, Mr. Redgrave, if you are going to moralise like that, I'll report you to Mr. Farquharson. You had much better sit down and take me round the studios.”
But Redgrave was carried off before he had time to begin, and Clytie joined a large group standing and sitting round the fire. They were the younger, less responsible members of the company, and were talking nonsense. Singleton, a clean-shaven, red-faced man and a minor poet, was explaining what he called the Physical Basis of Life. Professor Huxley, by the way, has treated the subject differently.
“The man who cannot dine,” Mr. Singleton was saying, “cannot feel. He has not his proper equipment of senses. He is an imperfection, a waster.”
“That does not apply to women, I hope,” said Mrs. Tredegar, a languid, well-preserved woman, who was suspected of hankerings after a long defunct æstheticism. “I have been feeling all my life--and I can't remember to have ever dined.”
“I did once--at the Café Anglais. By Jove, it was good!” interpolated a fair-haired youth, who leaped eagerly at objectivities in the conversation.
“Your enthusiasm does you credit!” said Singleton. “You'll die yet, of a hopeless passion.”
“Of course it applies to women. _La femme qui dîne, aime_. Put it into French, and you see the force of it at once.”
“Ah, but if you put it the other way about. _La femme qui aime_----It is horrible; it takes all the romance away,” said Mrs. Tredegar.
“Oh, dear!” sighed Mr. Singleton, clasping his little plump hands resignedly. “Are we still to adore the well-conducted person who goes on cutting bread and butter? Oh, believe me, Edwin Smith and Angelina Brown can't love, any more than they can appreciate Château-Mouton. They possess for each other a faint current of sexual attraction, which produces between them a mild excess of amiability. A lot of vanity comes in, as they like to parade the possession of each other before the envious. They call themselves lovers, and follow the traditions they have been taught in the novels they have misunderstood and the hints they have received from observance of their friends. The furthest they can go is to clasp hands limply under a sofa-cushion, when they think no one is looking.”