He looked at me and smiled.

“It is a moderately good portrait of an existing original,” he said.

“A woman’s face then, I suppose?  How very beautiful she must be!”

“Actual beauty is sexless,” he replied, and was silent.  The expression of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be far away from his occupation.

“And the Death Angel?” I went on.  “Had you a model for that also?”

This time a look of relief, almost of gladness, passed over his features.

“No indeed,” he answered with ready frankness; “that is entirely my own creation.”

I was about to compliment him on the grandeur and force of his poetical fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.

“If you really admire the picture,” he said, “pray do not say so.  If it is in truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and spare the poor workman who has called it into existence the shame of having to confess that it is not above human praise.  The only true criticism of high art is silence—­silence as grand as heaven itself.”

He spoke with energy, and his dark eyes flashed.  Amy (Mrs. Everard) looked at him curiously.

“Say now!” she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh, “aren’t you a little bit eccentric, signor?  You talk like a long-haired prophet!  I never met an artist before who couldn’t stand praise; it is generally a matter of wonder to me to notice how much of that intoxicating sweet they can swallow without reeling.  But you’re an exception, I must admit.  I congratulate you!”

Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said: 

“I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle.  Will you sit to me for your portrait?”

“I!” I exclaimed, with astonishment.  “Signor Cellini, I cannot imagine why you should wish so to waste your valuable time.  There is nothing in my poor physiognomy worthy of your briefest attention.”

“You must pardon me, mademoiselle,” he replied gravely, “if I presume to differ from you.  I am exceedingly anxious to transfer your features to my canvas.  I am aware that you are not in strong health, and that your face has not that roundness and colour formerly habitual to it.  But I am not an admirer of the milkmaid type of beauty.  Everywhere I seek for intelligence, for thought, for inward refinement—­in short, mademoiselle, you have the face of one whom the inner soul consumes, and, as such, may I plead again with you to give me a little of your spare time?  You will not regret it, I assure you.”

These last words were uttered in a lower tone and with singular impressiveness.  I rose from my seat and looked at him steadily; he returned me glance for glance, A strange thrill ran through me, followed by that inexplicable sensation of absolute calm that I had before experienced.  I smiled—­I could, not help smiling.