the picture of herself.

"I am Orsino Saracinesca," said the young man, watching her with some
admiration.

"Indeed?" she repeated, a shade less coldly. "I think I have heard my
poor husband say that he was connected with your family. What do you
think of my portrait? Every one has tried to paint me and failed, but my
friend Monsieur Gouache is succeeding. He has reproduced my hideous nose
and my dreadful mouth with a masterly exactness. No--my dear Monsieur
Gouache--it is a compliment I pay you. I am in earnest. I do not want a
portrait of the Venus of Milo with red hair, nor of the Minerva Medica
with yellow eyes, nor of an imaginary Medea in a fur cloak. I want
myself, just as I am. That is exactly what you are doing for me. Myself
and I have lived so long together that I desire a little memento of the
acquaintance."

"You can afford to speak lightly of what is so precious to others," said
Gouache, gallantly. Madame d'Aranjuez sank into the carved chair Orsino
had occupied.

"This dear Gouache--he is charming, is he not?" she said with a little
laugh. Orsino looked at her.

"Gouache is right," he thought, with the assurance of his years. "It
would be amusing to fall in love with her."