“You speak from experience, I suppose,” said Sylvie, moving slowly across the room towards the fire, and caressing her little dog which she held nestled under her rounded chin like a ball of silk, “And yet you, more than most men, have everything you can want in this world—­but I suppose you are not satisfied—­not even with Angela!”

“Angela is a dear little woman!” said Florian, with an air of emotional condescension, “The dearest little woman in the world!  And she is really clever.”

“Clever!” echoed Sylvie, “Is that all?”

“Cara Contessa, is not that enough?”

“Angela is a genius,” averred Sylvie, with warmth and energy, “a true genius!—­a great,—­a sublime artist!”

“Che Che!” and Varillo smiled, “How delightful it is to hear one woman praise another!  Women are so often like cats spitting and hissing at each other, tearing at each other’s clothes and reputations,—­clothes even more than reputations,—­that it is really quite beautiful to me to hear you admire my Angela!  It is very generous of you!”

“Generous of me!” and the Comtesse Hermenstein looked him full in the eyes, “Why I think it an honour to know her—­a privilege to touch her hand!  All Europe admires her—­she is one of the world’s greatest artists.”

“She paints wonderfully well,—­for a woman,” said Varillo lazily, “But there is so much in that phrase, cara Contessa, ‘for a woman’.  Your charming sex often succeeds in doing very clever and pretty things; but in a man they would not be considered surprising.  You fairy creatures are not made for fame—­but for love!”

The Comtesse glanced him up and down for a moment, then laughed musically.

“And for desertion, and neglect as well!” she said, “And sometimes for bestowing upon your charming sex every fortune and every good blessing, and getting kicked for our pains!  And sometimes it happens that we are permitted the amazing honour of toiling to keep you in food and clothing, while you jest at your clubs about the uselessness of woman’s work in the world!  Yes, I know!  Have you seen Angela’s great picture?”

Again Florian smiled.

“Great?  No!  I know that the dear little girl has fixed an enormous canvas up in her studio, and that she actually gets on a ladder to paint something upon it;—­but it is always covered,—­she does not wish me to see it till it is finished.  She is like a child in some things, and I always humour her.  I have not the least desire to look at her work till she herself is willing to show it to me.  But in myself I am convinced she is trying to do too much—­it is altogether too large an attempt.”

“What are you doing?” asked Sylvie abruptly.

“Merely delicate trifles,—­little mosaics of art!” said Varillo with languid satisfaction, “They may possibly please a connoisseur,—­but they are quite small studies.”

“You have the same model you had last year?” queried Sylvie.