Stephensen's eloquent sentences at last degenerated to an absolute harangue about the art of the future. He flung about apothegms like "the democratic formulae in art," "a scientific illustration of life, in contradiction to the decorative luxury," and finished up with something to the effect that the brush in the true artist's hand ought to be a probe in the wound of society.
"Then my advice is that they should first be thoroughly washed," the fair-bearded man suggested.
The wave of laughter for some time overpowered the discussion, but Stephensen's hollow talk kept afloat like a cork. Minna lifted her eyes and looked at him. Was it possible that she was imposed upon by this bosh? I thought. The expression in her averted eyes I could not see. But then, with eyes half-lowered, she turned her head in more than profile, and I grew almost terrified by the smile of cold disgust that played round her lips, and the annoyance that darkened the brows and shone from her eyes. Thus she had looked at him, and had turned away because she felt that the expression of her feelings was too evident. Little she realised that she turned her face to one who could read its language line by line like his mother tongue, while the others, at most, could only make out a few words of those which are the same in all languages. "Weakling," whispered these firm lips; "Liar, fraud!" this open forehead cried out; "Faithless!" exclaimed those clear eyes, which could look so tenderly and now stared so hard; but the whole hard-set face sighed: "And he was the love of my youth!"
"But Raphael!" a youthful individual of the party objected, "one cannot quite in that way"
"Bah, Raphael!—'distance lends enchantment,'" the big good-natured man with the fair beard said loudly.
