s terribly vulgar nowadays, and it is not
every one that knows just the sort of ugliness that has chic. But chic
is getting dreadfully common too. There 's a hint of it even in Madame
Baldi's bonnets. I like looking at people's things," she added in a
moment, turning to Rowland and resting her eyes on him. "It helps you to
find out their characters."

"Am I to suppose," asked Rowland, smiling, "that you have arrived at any
conclusions as to mine?"

"I am rather muddled; you have too many things; one seems to contradict
another. You are very artistic and yet you are very prosaic; you have
what is called a 'catholic' taste and yet you are full of obstinate
little prejudices and habits of thought, which, if I knew you, I should
find very tiresome. I don't think I like you."

"You make a great mistake," laughed Rowland; "I assure you I am very
amiable."

"Yes, I am probably wrong, and if I knew you, I should find out I was
wrong, and that would irritate me and make me dislike you more. So you
see we are necessary enemies."

"No, I don't dislike you."

"Worse and worse; for you certainly will not like me."

"You are very discouraging."

"I am fond of facing the truth, though some day you will deny that.
Where is that queer friend of yours?"

"You mean Mr. Hudson. He is represented by these beautiful works."

Miss Light looked for some moments at Roderick's statues. "Yes," she
said, "they are not so silly as most of the things we have seen. They
have no chic, and yet they are beautiful."

"You describe them perfectly," said Rowland. "They are beautiful, and
yet they have no chic. That 's it!"

"If he will promise to put none into my bust, I have a mind to let him
make it. A request made in those terms deserves to be granted."

"In what terms?"

"Did n't you hear him? 'Mademoiselle, you almost satisfy my conception
of the beautiful. I must model your bust.' That almost should be
rewarded. He is like me; he likes to face the truth. I think we should
get on together."

The Cavaliere approached Rowland, to express the pleasure he had derived
from his beautiful "collection." His smile was exquisitely bland, his
accent appealing, caressing, insinuating. But he gave Rowland an odd
sense of looking at a little waxen image, adjusted to perform certain
gestures and emit certain sounds. It had once contained a soul, but the
soul had leaked out. Nevertheless, Rowland reflected, there are more
profitless things than me