'Pinturicchio,' asked Giulia turning to Barbarisi; 'who's that?'
'Pinturicchio,' exclaimed Andrea, 'oh, a sort of feeble house-painter
who once took it into his head to paint your picture on a door in the
Pope's apartments. Never mind him--he is dead.'
'Dead? How?'
'In a most appalling manner! His wife's lover was a soldier from Perugia
in garrison at Sienna--ask Ludovico--he knows all about it, but has
never liked to tell you, for fear of hurting your feelings. Allow me to
inform you, Bebe, that the Prince of Wales does not begin to smoke till
between the second and third courses--never sooner. You are
anticipating.'
Bebe Silva had lighted a cigarette and was eating oysters, while she let
the smoke curl through her nostrils. She was like a restless schoolboy,
a little depraved hermaphrodite; pale and thin, the brightness of her
eyes heightened by fever and kohl, with lips that were too red, and
short and rather woolly hair that covered her head like an astrachan
cap. Fixed tightly in her left eye was a single eye-glass; she wore a
high stiff collar, a white necktie, an open waistcoat, a little black
coat of masculine cut and a gardenia in her button-hole. She affected
the manners of a dandy and spoke in a deep husky voice. And just therein
lay the secret of her attraction--in this imprint of vice, of depravity,
of abnormity in her appearance, her attitudes and her words.
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