Gervase kept his gaze steadily fixed on the table-cloth. He was
extremely pale, and had the air of one who has gone through some
great mental exhaustion.

"I have not succeeded as well as I expected," he answered slowly.
"I think my hand must have lost its cunning. At any rate, whatever
the reason may be, Art has been defeated by Nature."

He crumbled up the piece of bread near his plate in small portions
with a kind of involuntary violence in the action, and Dr. Dean,
deliberately drawing out a pair of spectacles from their case,
adjusted them, and surveyed him curiously.

"You mean to say that you cannot paint the Princess's picture?"

Gervase glanced up at him with a half-sullen, half-defiant
expression.

"I don't say that," he replied; "I can paint something--something
which you can call a picture if you like,--but there is no
resemblance to the Princess Ziska in it. She is beautiful, and I
can get nothing of her beauty,--I can only get the reflection of a
face which is not hers."

"How very curious!" exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. "Quite
psychological, is it not, Doctor? It is almost creepy!" and she
managed to produce a delicate shudder of her white shoulders
without cracking the blanc de perle enamel. "It will be something
fresh for you to study."