"Do you enjoy that?"he asked,incredulously.
"I'm not a star,"she replied looking up with a quiet smile,"but only a planet--one of the smaller asteroids--and shine with borrowed light.These little women enjoy this hugely;and I receive a pale reflection of their pleasure.""You are certainly happy in your answer,if not in your work,"he remarked.
"Mr.Van Berg,"said one of the children emphatically,"Miss Burton is the best lady that ever lived.""I agree with you,my dear,"responded the artist,with answering emphasis.
"Yes,children,"said Miss Burton,her eyes dancing with mischief,"and I want you to appreciate Mr.Van Berg's genius too.He is the greatest artist that ever lived,and there never were such pictures as he paints.""Miss Burton,I beg off,"interrupted Van Berg,laughing."You always get the better of one.No,children,"he continued in answer to their looks of wonder,"I know less about painting pictures,in comparison,than you do of dressing dolls.""But Miss Burton always tells us the truth,"persisted the child.
"Now you see the result of our folly,"said the young lady,shaking her head at him."We have given this child an example of insincerity.We were jesting,my dear.Mr.Van Berg and I did not mean what we said.""But I did mean what I said,"replied the child,earnestly.
"Since only downright honesty,"the artist resumed with a laugh,"is permitted in this little group,so near nature's heart,I think I must follow this small maiden's example,and stick to my original statement.For once,Miss Burton,we have won the advantage over you,and have proved that yours are the only insincere words that have been spoken.But I know that if I stay another moment I shall be worsted.So I shall leave the field before victory is exchanged for another reverse."As he turned laughingly away he saw--what he had not observed before--that Ida Mayhew was sitting near.She was ostensibly reading;but even his brief glance assured him that her downcast eyes were not following the lines.Her face was so pale,so rigid,so like a sculptured ideal of some kind of suffering he could not understand,that it haunted him.
He had given but little thought to her for the past two days,and indeed had rarely seen her.She had managed to take her meals when he was not present,and on one or two occasions had had them sent to her room,pleading illness as the reason.Indeed her flagging appetite and altered appearance did not make much feigning on her part necessary.
She had evidently heard the conversation just narrated;and she believed that Van Berg had echoed the child's belief in regard to Miss Burton more in truth than in jest.
The ruling passion of the artist was aroused.A plain woman might have looked unutterable things,and he would have passed on with a shrug,or but a thought of commiseration.But that oval,downcast face followed him.Its sadness and pain interested him because conveyed to his eye by a perfect contour.
"Was it a trick?"he thought,"or a fortuitous combination of the features themselves,that enabled them to express so much!It must be so,for surely the shallow coquette had not much to express.""A plague on the perversity of nature,"he exclaimed,"to give the girl such features.If Jennie Burton had them,she would be the ideal woman of the world."The practical result,however,was that he half forgot during dinner that she was "the best woman that ever lived"in his furtive effort to study Ida's face in its present aspect;and that he also spent most of the afternoon in his room sketching it from memory.
