"Oh, are you? And this? Ah! this is from the leader of the Philistines, Rodrigg. Yes, I heard that Rodrigg was in the toils." Perior examined the small, compact handwriting without much apparent curiosity.
"That is simply nonsense. There was a time--but he soon saw the hopelessness. He is my friend now; not that I am particularly fond of him--the grain is rather coarse: but he is a good creature, far more honest than he imagines, simple, after a clumsy fashion. He aims at distinguished diplomatic complexity, I may tell you, and, I fancy, comes to me for the necessary polishing. Read his letter."
Perior had looked at her, still smiling, but more absently, while she spoke.
"Oh! Rodrigg is more cautious," he said glancing through the great man's neatly constructed phrases. "You are not with the Philistines; he feels that."
"Politically no; but I have a good deal of influence with him. You see those reviews he mentions; I went through a lot of heavy French and Italian reading for him--sociology, industrialism--and saw the result in his last speech."
"Ah, really. Don't be sarcastic, Alceste, to me. One of those men will probably be Prime Minister some day. You can't deny that they are eminent men."
"And therefore you are an eminent woman. Well, the logic isn't too lame. I'll conclude, Camelia, that you may do quite a lot of harm in the world."
"You don't believe that a woman's influence in politics can be for good?"
"Not the influence of a woman like you--a--a _femme bibelot_."
"Good!" cried Camelia, gently clapping her hands.
"It is as that, you know, that these men court you. An _objet d'art_ for their drawing-rooms."
"If I am mistaken--if they cherish ideals, they are unlucky devils."
"No, Alceste, I am well justified in keeping my self-respect intact. It is not for my _beaux yeux_ that I am courted--yes, yes--that wry look isn't needed! I know in what hideously bad taste I am talking, but one can't use artistic methods with you. As I say, I have my finger in any number of pies besides the pie political. You should see the respect in which I am held by the writers and painters. And I _have_ good taste; I know that. You can't deny it, since you helped it to grow. What other woman in London has a collection to equal mine? Dégas--Outamaro--Oh, Alceste, don't look so funnily! Do you really imagine that I am not conscious of the baldness of my exposition? But what is the good of putting on a wig for you!"