Filmore Durand smiled rather indifferently
and gave his pallet and brushes to his man, who was already waiting at
his elbow to receive them. For the famous American portrait-painter
detested all sorts of litter, such as a painting-table, brush-jars,
and the like, as much as his great predecessor Lenbach ever did, and
when he was at work his old servant brought him a brush, a tube of
colour, a knife, or a pencil, as each was needed, from a curtained
recess where everything was kept ready and in order.

'I like it as it is,' said Giovanni Severi, resting his hands on the
hilt of his sabre, as he sat looking thoughtfully from the portrait to
the original.

The young girl smiled, pleased by his approbation of the likeness,
which she herself thought good, though it by no means flattered. On
the contrary, it made her look older than she was, and much more sad;
for though the spring laughed in her eyes when she looked at the
officer to whom people said she was engaged, their counterparts in the
portrait were deep and grave. Certain irregularities of feature, too,
were more apparent in the painting than in nature. For instance, there
was a very marked difference between the dark eyebrows; for whereas
the right one made a perfect curve, the other turned up quite sharply
towards the forehead at the inner end, as if it did not wish to meet
its fellow; and the Marchesa del Prato was quite sure that Angela's
delicate nose had not really that aquiline and almost ascetic look
which the great master had given it. In fact, the middle-aged woman
almost wished that it had, for of all things that could happen she
would have been best pleased that her niece should turn out to have a
vocation and should disappear into some religious order as soon as
possible. This was not likely, and the Marchesa was by no means ready
to accept, as an alternative, a marriage with Giovanni Severi, whom
she had long looked upon as her own private property.

Filmore Durand glanced from one to another of the three in quick
succession, stroked his rather bristly moustache, and lit a cigarette,
not because he wanted to smoke, but because he could not help it,
which is a very different thing. Then he looked at his picture and
forgot that he was not alone with it; and it still pleased him, after
a fashion, though he was not satisfied with what he had done.

Great artists and great writers are rarely troubled by theories; one
of the chief characteristics of matu