something," said Psyche, prophetically, as she recalled the strong,
ambitious face which she had often observed, but never mentioned
before.

"Well, dear, considering that you didn't 'particularly look' at the
man, you've given us a very good idea of his appearance. We'll call
him Michael Angelo, and he shall be your idol. I prefer stout old
Rembrandt myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael," said the
lively Cutter, slapping away at Homer's bald pate energetically, as
she spoke.

"Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste now," returned Miss
Larkins. "He was in the hall yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, who
had his inevitable umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I came
up, the umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir Joshua
laughed, but Rubens said, 'Deuce take it!' and caught up the umbrella,
giving me a never-to-be-forgotten look. It was perfectly thrilling."

"Which,--the umbrella, the speech, or the look?" asked Psyche, who was
not sentimental.

"Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature in art," sighed
the amber-tressed Larkins. "I have, for I feed upon a glance, a tint,
a curve, with exquisite delight. Rubens is adorable (_as a study_);
that lustrous eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous cheek, are
perfect. He only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching hat to be
the genuine thing."

"This isn't the genuine thing by any means. What _does_ it need?" said
Psyche, looking with a despondent air at the head on her stand.