‘It is neither more nor less than a careful likeness of the original,’ returned Serena, modestly. ‘In the arrangement of the colours I wish to convey----’ ‘The spirituality of a superb and life-consuming dream, fired with the arid flame of incipient passion--ethereal, almost epicene--conscious of throbbing vistas of asexual retrospection and chromatic wastes of fruitless future fantasy, interspersed with forlorn gulfs of irremediable darkness and despair. Added to this, and seen in the pose of the limp hand and the melancholy texture of the flesh tints, is the Lethean consciousness of a drowned and devastated ideal, unlightened by one star of promise and irredeemed by one flower of celestial ruth. Am I right? Do I take your meaning?’ ‘Just so,’ said Serena, dryly, and turned to look at the Frenchman. The latter, with shoulders elevated, and _pince-nez_ in position, was gazing eagerly at the portrait. He now turned with a bow to Serena. ‘A portrait, did you say, Monsieur?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘May I ask of whom?’ ‘Of the new actress, Miss Diana Vere.’ ‘It is curious,’ said Gavrolles; ‘but pardon, the face seems familiar to me. I have seen it somewhere before.’ ‘Indeed! Well, such a face, once seen, is not likely to be forgotten.’ ‘Is it not beautiful!’ cried the Frenchman, with elevated shoulders and extended hands; ‘and seen upon your canvas, how sublime! How shall I express to you--to you, great artist, great genius, what at this moment I feel? But tell me, Monsieur, this--is she a friend of yours? No? Yes?’ 41 know her slightly, that is all.’ ‘What would I not give to see her, to have the honour of her acquaintance!’ ‘If you wish to see her,’ said Serena, ‘you have only to go to the Parthenon Theatre, where she appears nightly.’ ‘I will go; but stay, I return this night to Paris--but I shall return, and then, perhaps, you will introduce me?’ Serena shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he answered. ‘The lady sees no one, and is quite a recluse. What is still more peculiar is the fact that she has a particular aversion to gentlemen of your nation--to France and to Frenchmen without exception.’ ‘You amaze me, Monsieur! Ah, this insular prejudice, how bête! But perhaps she has reason--perhaps she has lived in my country.’ ‘Can’t say,’ returned Serena, as if tired of the subject; and he commenced again to work at the picture. Ponto looked over his shoulder as he worked with admiring eyes. ‘You must know Gavrolles better,’ he observed; ‘I like him; we all like him. He is a man of ideas.’ Gavrolles placed his hand upon his heart and bowed. ‘I have learned of my master, the immortal Théophile, to worship what is beautiful, to adore what is superb.’