—You might as well talk of turning the moon's head.'
The old lady turned grave eyes on Graham. 'You think her beautiful?'
'I don't know about beautiful; but she's like a Saint Cecilia,' said Graham, and Jill looked at him gratefully.
'A Saint Cecilia?'
'Yes. With her harp, you know. A saint and a Roman lady. That's what she made me think of the other day.'
'But Marthe is not a lady. She is a teacher of music,' said poor Madame de Lamouderie.
'Well, I only said she looked like one, you know,' Graham observed, and Jill, troubled, saw that he was more intent on tormenting his old friend than on praising Mademoiselle Ludérac. 'Just as I look like a gentleman, though I'm only a painter.'
'Only a painter! You are of an incomparable distinction!—You are a genius; a great genius!' cried the old lady, deeply perturbed, 'and genius ennobles. It is not the same as a poor, small métier, like giving lessons on the harp for hire. And Marthe is bourgeoise in birth; almost peasant. I feel the peasant too much at times.'
'Well, saints have been peasants,' Graham continued, with a cruel blitheness, to corner her.
'But Marthe is not a saint! You are idealists, dreamers, to think so! She has a very violent temper! As I have found to my cost!'
