“Of course it is!” replied the girl quickly—­“By smallness I did not mean the size of the canvas,—­I meant the character of the subject.”

“There is nothing small in the beauty of woman!” declared Varillo, with an enthusiastic air—­“Her form is divine!  Her delicious flesh tints—­her delicate curves—­her amorous dimples—­her exquisite seductiveness—­combined with her touching weakness—­these qualities make of woman the one,—­the only subject for a painter’s brush, when the painter is a man!”

Involuntarily Angela thought of “Pon-Pon,” who had posed for the “Phillida,” and a little shiver ran over her nerves like a sudden wind playing on the chords of an AEolian harp.  Gently she withdrew herself from her lover’s embrace.

“And when the painter is a woman, should the only subject for her brush be the physical beauty of man?” she asked.

Varillo gave an airy gesture of remonstrance.

“Carissima mia!  You shock me!  How can you suggest such a thing!  The two sexes differ in tastes and aspirations as absolutely as in form.  Man is an unfettered creature,—­he must have his liberty, even if it reaches license; woman is his dependent.  That is Nature’s law.  Man is the conqueror—­woman is his conquest!  We cannot alter these things.  That is one reason for the prejudice existing against woman’s work—­if it excels that of man, we consider it a kind of morbid growth—­an unnatural protuberance on the face of the universe.  In fact, it is a wrong balance of the intellectual forces, which in their action, should always remain on the side of man.”

“But if man abuses his power, may it not be taken from him altogether?” suggested Angela tranquilly, “If man, knowing that a life of self-indulgence destroys his intellectual capacity, still persists in that career, and woman, studying patiently to perfect herself, refuses to follow his example of vice, may it not happen that the intellectual forces may range themselves on the side of right rather than wrong, and invest woman with a certain supremacy in the end?  It is a problem worth thinking of!”

Varillo looked sharply at her.  Had she heard anything of his private life in Rome?—­a life he kept carefully concealed from everyone who might be likely to report his little amusements at the Palazzo Sovrani?  A slight, very slight touch of shame pricked him, as he noted the grace of her figure, the dainty poise of her head on her slim white throat—­the almost royal air of dignity and sweetness which seemed to surround her,—­there was no doubt whatever of her superiority to the women he generally consorted with, and for a moment he felt remorseful,—­but he soon dismissed his brief compunction with a laugh.

“No, sweet Angela,” he said gaily, “it is not worth thinking of!  Believe me!  I will not enter into any such profound discussions with you.  My present time is too short, and your attractions too many!  Why did you slip out of my arms so unkindly just now?  Surely you were not offended?  Comeback!  Come, and we will go up to the great picture as lovers should, together—­entwined in each other’s arms!—­ and you shall then draw the mysterious curtain,—­or shall I?”