"But the true artist does not seek to portray the lowest expression of that soul," persisted Dumaresque's critic. "Across the Atlantic there are thousands who contend that a woman such as this Kora whom you paint, has no soul because of the black blood in her veins. They think of the dark people as we think of apes. It is all a question of longitude, Monsieur Dumaresque. The crudeness of America is the jest of France. The wisdom of France is the lightest folly of the Brahims; and so it goes ever around the world. The soul of that girl will weigh as heavily as ours in the judgment that is final; but, in the meantime, why teach it and others to admire all that allurement of evil showing in her eyes as she looks at you?" "Judithe!" protested the dowager. "Oh!--I do not doubt in the least, Maman, that the woman Kora looked just so when she sat for the picture," conceded the girl; "but why not endeavor to awaken a higher, stronger expression, and paint _that_, showing the better possibilities within her than mere seductiveness?" "What fervor and what folly, Marquise!" cried Dumaresque. "It is a speech of folly only because it is I whom you ask to be the missionary, and because it is the pretty Kora you would ask me to convert--and to what? Am I so perfect in all ways that I dare preach, even with paint and brush? Heavens! I should have all Paris laughing at me." "But Judithe would not have you that sort of extremist," said the dowager, laughing at the dismay in his face. "She knows you do well; only she fears you do not exert yourself enough to perceive how you might do better." "She forgets; I did once; only a few weeks ago," he said briefly; and the girl dropped her hands wearily and leaned her head against the dowager's couch. "Maman, our good friend is going to talk matrimony again," she said plaintively; "and if he does, I warn you, though it is only mid-day, I shall go asleep;" and her eyes closed tightly as though to make the threat more effective. "You see," said the old lady, raising one chiding finger, "it is really lamentable, Loris, that your sentimental tendencies have grown into a steady habit." "I agree," he assented; "but consider. She assails me--she, a saintly little judge in grey! She lectures, preaches at me! Tells me I lack virtue! But more is the pity for me; she will not remember that one virtue was most attractive to me, and she bade me abandon it." "Tell him," said the girl with her eyes still closed, "to not miscall things; no one is all virtue." "Pardon; that is what you seemed to me, and I never before fancied that the admirable virtues would find me so responsive, when, pouf! with one word you demolished all my castle of delight and now condemn me that I am an outlaw from those elevating fancies." He spoke with such a comical air of self-pity that the old lady laughed and the young Marquise opened her eyes.