[i]"Udovol'stviye eto moye,[/i] Mr. Takahiro," she replied, the sweet music of her voice ringing with such sincerity, Galina would have been truly surprised were an English translation necessary to carry her meaning. There was an astonishing ease in walking alongside this Takahiro Souma, a grace she had not expected in the least from a crippled man.

Galina found herself in no hurry at all to be rid of his company, though she noted straight away that this second floor mezzanine gallery should be the perfect launching point to the third floor, given the proper moment. And when his eyes traveled over her shoulder, to the painting behind her, the young woman's brow furrowed curiously, a slightly bemused grin almost surprised to her lips, the mask of the gentle Baronessa slipping for a split-second. Ah, but she was the erstwhile student of art and architecture, was she not? Yes, of [i]course[/i] she would know this artist very well, and the upstart movement that infuriated the traditionalists on the Continent.

"Claude Monet," she replied with a quite passable Parisian inflection, though the English that followed was as broken as ever for the poor Baronessa. Still her face brightened, animated with an undying love for the subject that a lack of vocabulary could not begin to dim. 

"Is artist. Claude Monet. He is... Is... " She seemed to struggle for a moment though that wide smile never left her face, searching her thoughts so intently for the proper English word. "Is school of art. Call 'Impress... Ist' No! No, forgive. Please. Is [i]'Im. Press. Ion. Ist.'[/i]" The young woman pronounced the hard-fought word slowly, syllable by syllable, her melodic tones making a lilting song even of her broken English.

"Im.Pression.Ist. Not paint the... The lines. Forms. Oh no! They see... See different. Paint [i]light[/i]." The Baronessa's fingers pointed to the painstakingly detailed brushstrokes that comprised the water lilies, and the reflective surfaces of the pond on which they floated. 

"You see, Mr. Takahiro? Here." Galina's hand hovered over the canvas, outlining the edges of the low-hanging branches, the sky presumably above the water itself. "Is like... Painting of trees, in water! Light of sky. Painting made of lights!" 

The young woman's triumphant grin hovered on her lips for only a moment though, before she blushed furiously once more, her dark eyes falling to the floor. "Forgive. Please," she said softly, so obviously, painfully abashed. "Papa say, talk much. You ask artist. Is Claude Monet."

As her eyes studied the graceful patterns of the Persian rug beneath her feet, fanciful vines twining through sprays of oriental lilies, Galina made a quick mental note of the single servant she had seen on this floor thus far, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Ah, thank heaven for the facade of the demure, unpresuming Baronessa. There was never a lack of sweetly embarrassed moments to collect her thoughts, and reprise a calculation or two.