spoke with slow gravity.

"I don't paint 'pretty' portraits," he said.

"Mr. Markham means, Hermia, that he doesn't believe in artistic lies,"
said Olga smoothly.

"And _I_ contend," Hermia went on undaunted, "that it's an artistic lie
not to paint you as pretty as you are."

"Perhaps Mr. Markham doesn't think me as pretty as you do--"

Markham bowed his head as though to absolve himself from the guilt
suggested.

"I try not to think in terms of prettiness," he explained slowly. "Had
you been merely pretty I don't think I should have attempted--"

"But isn't the mission of Art to beautify--to adorn--?" broke in
Hermia, mercilessly bromidic.

Markham turned and looked at her as though he had suddenly discovered
the presence of an insect which needed extermination.

"My dear young lady, the mission of Art is to tell the truth," he
growled. "When I find it impossible to do that, I shall take up
another trade."

"Oh," said Hermia, enjoying herself immensely. "I didn't mean to
discourage you."