Twice I called her attention to men
who saluted her without being seen by her as she passed close to
them.
"I am very sorry," she said in answer. "It is a stupid fashion to
notice one's friends here. One should not be supposed to recognise
them at the Academy any more than in church!"
We drifted on slowly with the mass, and at last came to a standstill
before a wedge of figures in front of a prominent canvas. A nude
female figure stood upright, facing the spectator, with both arms
upraised to fasten a pomegranate blossom in the tightly twisted
hair: an indefinite heap of sketchy clothing lay upon the ground.
"The title?" murmured Lucia; and I pressed my way a little forward
to see the number, looked it up in the catalogue, and read to her
"The Toilette." "Before the toilette! I should think," said Lucia,
in a satirical whisper. I nodded and laughed.
We could not move on till the circle before us moved, and we stood
silent looking at the shadowy representation of human flesh and
blood smiling with fixed inanity from the canvas.
"The most successful picture of the year!" remarked one man just in
front of us.
"Eminently artistic!" murmured another, stifling a yawn.
"Did you ever see such a thing?" said Lucia. "No living woman ever
looked like that!"
"No," I answered, unguardedly.
Lucia threw a sudden, brilliant, mocking glance over my face.
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