between them in London the previous winter I did not know: but it seemed
evident that she had influenced him there as she did on the 'Fulvia', had
again lost her influence, and was now resenting the loss, out of pique or
anger, or because she really cared for him. It might be that she cared.

She added after a moment: "Add man to nature, and it stops sulking: which
goes to show that fallen humanity is better than no company at all."

She had an inherent strain of mockery, of playful satire, and she told
me once, when I knew her better, that her own suffering always set her
laughing at herself, even when it was greatest. It was this
characteristic which made her conversation very striking, it was so
sharply contrasted in its parts; a heartless kind of satire set against
the most serious and acute statements. One never knew when she would
turn her own or her interlocutor's gravity into mirth.

Now no one replied immediately to her remarks, and she continued: "If I
were an artist I should wish to paint that scene, given that the lights
were not so bright and that mill machinery not so sharply defined. There
is almost too much limelight, as it were; too much earnestness in the
thing. Either there should be some side-action of mirth to make it less
intense, or of tragedy to render it less photographic; and unless, Dr.
Marmion, you would consent to be solemn, which would indeed be droll;
or that The Padre there--how amusing they should call him that!--should
cease to be serious, which, being so very unusual, would be tragic, I do
not know how we are to tell the artist that he has missed a chance of
immortalising himself."

Roscoe said nothing, but smiled at her vivacity, while he deprecated her
words by a wave of his hand. I also was silent for a moment; for there