The girls unanimously attempted to get into the position conceived by Maurice; but in the end they all had to agree that Jenny and Lilli were right. The pose was impossible. "Is that your mother?" asked Madge, pointing to Mona Lisa. "Don't be silly, Madge Wilson," Jenny corrected. "It's a picture, and I _don't_ think much of her," she continued. "What a terrible mouth! Her hands is nice, though--very nice. And what's all those rocks at the back--low tide at Clacton, I should think." "But don't you like her marvelous smile?" asked Maurice. "I don't call that a smile." "I knew those flute-players annoyed her," said Castleton. "Down with creative criticism. She's nothing but a lady with a bad temper." "Of course she is," said Jenny. "Would you smile, Jenny, if Ronnie here painted you with a gramophone behind a curtain?" "No, I shouldn't." "Catch the fleeting petulance, and you become as famous as Leonardo, my Ronnie." Philip IV was voted a little love with rather too big a head, and the Prince of Orange was a dear. Botticelli's Venus was not alluded to. The acquaintanceship was not considered ripe enough to justify any comment in that direction; although later on Jenny, her eyes pectinated with mirth and flashing wickedly, sang, pointing to the embarrassed goddess: "She sells seashells on the seashore." Primavera concluded the tour of inspection, and by some Primavera herself was thought to be not unlike Jenny. "She's more like one of those angels with candles at Berlin," said Ronnie Walker. "Anyway," said Maurice, with a note of satisfaction, "she's a Botticelli." "Well, now you've all settled my position in life," said Jenny, "what's Irene?" But somehow it was not so interesting to discover Irene's prototype, and her similarity to the ideal of any single old master was left undecided. Now came the singing of coon songs with ridiculous words and haunting refrains, while dusk descended upon London. Maudie was at the piano, where a candle flickered on each side of the music and lit up the size of her nose. When all the favorites of the moment had been sung, older and now almost forgotten successes were rescued from the dust of obscurity. "We _are_ among the 'has beens,'" said Jenny. "Why, I remember that at the Islington panto when I went to see you, Lilli, and that's donkey's years ago. We've properly gone back to the year dot." Gradually, however, the jolly dead tunes produced a sentimental effect upon the party, commemorating as they did many bygone enjoyments. The sense of fleeting time, evoked by the revival of discarded melodies, began to temper their spirits. They sang the choruses more softly, as if the undated tunes had become fragile with age and demanded a gentler treatment. Perhaps in the gathering gloom each girl saw herself once more in short frocks. Perhaps Lilli Vergoe distinguished the smiling ghost of old ambition. Certainly Jenny thought of Mr. Vergoe and Madame Aldavini and the Four Jumping Beans.