"
"Of clay?"
"Essentially so."
And Miss Mazerod broke off into a happy laugh. Hers was not the
bitterness of plainness or insignificance, but something infinitely more
suggestive. It was, indeed, not bitterness at all, but light-hearted
contempt, which is, perhaps, the deepest contempt there is.
"Who is the wretched woman with no backbone draped in rusty black?" asked
Dora.
"My dear! That is one of the great lady artists of the age. She lectures
to factory girls or something, and she paints limp females snuffling over
tiger-lilies. Her ideal woman has that sort of droop of the throat--I
imagine she-tries to teach it to the factory. She objects to backbone."
Miss Mazerod, who possessed a very firm little specimen of the adjunct
mentioned, drew herself up and smiled commiseratingly.
"Then," said Dora, "I feel quite consoled about my sketches."
For the first time Miss Mazerod looked serious.
"Dora," she said, "I often wonder whether it would be profane to mention
in one's prayers a little gratitude for not having an artistic soul.
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