“Dear no, I’ve but just noticed her—­Outreau, a moment ago put me on her.  But we’re both so taken, and he also wants—­”

“To paint her?” Lady Beldonald uncontrollably murmured.

“Don’t be afraid we shall fight for her,” I returned with a laugh for this tone.  Mrs. Brash was still where I could see her without appearing to stare, and she mightn’t have seen I was looking at her, though her protectress, I’m afraid, could scarce have failed of that certainty.  “We must each take our turn, and at any rate she’s a wonderful thing, so that if you’ll let her go to Paris Outreau promises her there—­”

“There?” my companion gasped.

“A career bigger still than among us, as he considers we haven’t half their eye.  He guarantees her a succes fou.”

She couldn’t get over it.  “Louisa Brash?  In Paris?”

“They do see,” I went on, “more than we and they live extraordinarily, don’t you know, in that.  But she’ll do something here too.”

“And what will she do?”

If frankly now I couldn’t help giving Mrs. Brash a longer look, so after it I could as little resist sounding my converser.  “You’ll see.  Only give her time.”

She said nothing during the moment in which she met my eyes; but then:  “Time, it seems to me, is exactly what you and your friend want.  If you haven’t talked with her—­”

“We haven’t seen her?  Oh we see bang off—­with a click like a steel spring.  It’s our trade, it’s our life, and we should be donkeys if we made mistakes.  That’s the way I saw you yourself, my lady, if I may say so; that’s the way, with a long pin straight through your body, I’ve got you.  And just so I’ve got her!”

All this, for reasons, had brought my guest to her feet; but her eyes had while we talked never once followed the direction of mine.  “You call her a Holbein?”

“Outreau did, and I of course immediately recognised it.  Don’t you?  She brings the old boy to life!  It’s just as I should call you a Titian.  You bring him to life.”

She couldn’t be said to relax, because she couldn’t be said to have hardened; but something at any rate on this took place in her—­something indeed quite disconnected from what I would have called her.  “Don’t you understand that she has always been supposed—?” It had the ring of impatience; nevertheless it stopped short on a scruple.

I knew what it was, however, well enough to say it for her if she preferred.  “To be nothing whatever to look at?  To be unfortunately plain—­or even if you like repulsively ugly?  Oh yes, I understand it perfectly, just as I understand—­I have to as a part of my trade—­many other forms of stupidity.  It’s nothing new to one that ninety-nine people out of a hundred have no eyes, no sense, no taste.  There are whole communities impenetrably sealed.  I don’t say your friend’s a person to make the men turn round in Regent Street.  But it adds to the joy of the few who do see that they have it so much to themselves.  Where in the world can she have lived?  You must tell me all about that—­or rather, if she’ll be so good, she must.”