He laid his hand on my
arm and gave me a sad smile. "Has she taxed _your_ gallantry at last?"
he asked. "She's a foolish woman. She's frivolous and heartless, and
she pretends to be serious and kind. She prattles about Giotto's second
manner and Vittoria Colonna's liaison with 'Michael'--one would think
that Michael lived across the way and was expected in to take a hand at
whist--but she knows as little about art, and about the conditions of
production, as I know about Buddhism. She profanes sacred words," he
added more vehemently, after a pause. "She cares for you only as some
one to band teacups in that horrible mendacious little parlour of hers,
with its trumpery Peruginos! If you can't dash off a new picture every
three days, and let her hand it round among her guests, she tells them in
plain English that you are an impostor!"
This attempt of mine to test Mrs. Coventry's accuracy was made in the
course of a late afternoon walk to the quiet old church of San Miniato,
on one of the hill-tops which directly overlook the city, from whose
gates you are guided to it by a stony and cypress-bordered walk, which
seems a very fitting avenue to a shrine.
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