Her appreciation of the ridiculous was keen, and in all things she unerringly saw and felt, where it existed, the touch of sham, the overshading, the overtone.

It was this which had given poise and penetration to her own work and made her of worth to the world.

The serious critic, with the sense of humour and the power of expression, must inevitably command the world's ear.

And so it was that she had commanded.

Her sense of humour was really the artist's instinct for proportion.
"I'm sure I've heard it before, somewhere, in books," she murmured gleefully.
I had an instinct for proportion myself, and I collapsed forthwith, descending from the dominant pose of a master of matter to a state of humble confusion which was, to say the least, very miserable.
Her hand leapt out at once to mine.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
"No need to be," I gulped.