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Ant. Think you so? To me he appears to have failed in this respect; or perhaps it is because any semblance of eyes which I can thus stedfastly look upon, are not to me the eyes of Livia.

Vald. I did not suspect you of being so fastidious.

Ant. Not so neither: but had they been turned on some other object instead of the spectator, one should then have seen them as one is accustomed to see them.

Vald. Yes, speaking for your single self, this may be true. I beg leave to dissent.

Ant. Yet surely you will agree, that the direct thrilling glance, from eyes of such vivid expression, cannot possibly be imitated, and ought not by a skilful painter to be attempted.

Vald. Perhaps you are right: you talk like a connoisseur on the subject.

Liv. I come in good time then; for connoisseur or not, to hear De Bertrand talk at all is a very lucky adventure. You have wronged us much, Baron, to keep us so long ignorant of your taste for the fine arts.

Ant. (embarrassed.) Madam, I am much honoured. I am very little—(mumbling words in a confused way that are not heard.) I am very much obliged to you.

Liv. You are grateful for slight obligations. But you are looking at my picture I see, which was painted two years ago at the request of a