“Nor should I deserve to be forgiven if I deceived you in a matter that to you is so sacred.”
“But how—how am I to gain this magic power to make faces feel and live on canvas?”
“You must believe. You yourself must feel.”
She looked at him with darkening face, and then in a sudden burst of passion said: “I don’t believe; I can’t feel. All this is mockery, after all.”
“No!” said Dennis, in the deep, assured tone that ever calms and secures attention. “This is not mockery. I speak the words of truth and soberness. You do not believe, but that is not the same as cannot. And permit me to contradict you when I say you do feel. On this subject so near your heart you feel most deeply—feel as I never knew anyone feel before. This proves you capable of feeling on other and higher subjects, and what you feel your trained and skilful hand can portray. You felt on the evening of that miserable day, and sang as I never heard you sing before. Your tones then would move any heart, and my tears fell with the rain in sympathy: I could not help it.”
Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her breath came hard and quick.
“Oh, if I could believe you were right!”
“I know I am right,” he said, so decidedly that again hope grew rosy and beautiful in her face.
“Then again,” he continued, eagerly, “see what an advantage you have over the most of us. Your power of imitation is wonderful. You can copy anything you see.”
“Good evening, Miss Ludolph. Where have you been hiding? I have twice made the tour of the supper-room in my search,” broke in the voluble Mr. Mellen. Then he gave Dennis a cool stare, who acted as if unconscious of his presence. An expression of disgust flitted across Christine’s face at the interruption, or the person—perhaps both—and she was about to shake him off that Dennis might speak further, when Miss Winthrop and others came up, and there was a general movement back to the parlors.
“Why, Christine, what is the matter?” asked her friend. “You look as if you had a fever. What has Mr. Fleet been saying?”
“Oh, we have had an argument on my hobby, art, and of course don’t agree, and so got excited in debate.”
Miss Winthrop glanced keenly at them and said, “I would like to have heard it, for it was Greek meeting Greek.”
“To what art or trade did Mr. Fleet refer?” asked Mr. Mellen, with an insinuation that all understood.
“One that you do not understand,” said Christine, keenly.
The petted and spoiled millionaire flushed angrily a moment, and then said with a bow: “You are right, Miss Ludolph. Mr. Fleet is acquainted with one or two arts that I have never had the pleasure of learning.”
“He has at least learned the art of being a gentleman,” was the sharp retort.
The young man’s face grew darker, and he said, “From the sweeping nature of your remarks, I perceive that Mr. Fleet is high in your favor.”
“A poor pun made in poorer taste,” was all the comfort he got from Christine.
Dennis was naturally of a very jealous disposition where his affections were concerned. His own love took such entire possession of him that he could not brook the interference of others, or sensibly consider that they had the same privilege to woo, and win if possible, that he had. Especially distasteful to him was this rich and favored youth, whose presence awakened all his combativeness, which was by no means small.
Mr. Mellen’s most inopportune interruption and covert taunts provoked him beyond endurance. His face was fairly white with rage, and for a moment he felt that he could stamp his rival out of existence. In the low, concentrated voice of passion he said, “If Mr. Mellen should lose his property, as many do, I gather from his remarks that he would still keep up his idea of a gentleman on charity.”
Mr. Mellen flushed to the roots of his hair, his hands clenched. In the flashing eyes and threatening faces of the young men those witnessing the scene foresaw trouble. A light hand fell on Dennis’s arm, and Miss Winthrop said, “Mr. Fleet, I wish to show you a picture, and ask your judgment in regard to it.”
Dennis understood the act, and in a moment more his face was crimson with shame.
“Miss Winthrop, you ought to send me home at once. I told you I was unfit for society. Somehow I am not myself. I humbly ask your pardon.”
“So sincere a penitent shall receive absolution at once. You were greatly provoked. I trust you for the future.”
“You may,” was the emphatic answer. After that pledge Mr. Mellen might have struck him and received no more response than from a marble statue.
Mr. Mellen also took a sober second thought, remembering that he was in a lady’s parlor. He walked away with his ears tingling, for the flattered youth had never had such an experience before. The few who witnessed the scene smiled significantly, as did Christine half contemptuously; but Miss Winthrop soon restored serenity, and the remaining hours passed away in music and dancing. Christine did not speak to Dennis again—that is, by word of mouth—but she thought of him constantly, and their eyes often met;—on his part that same eager, questioning look. She ever turned hers at once away. But his words kept repeating themselves continually, especially his last sentence, when the unlucky Mr. Mellen had broken in upon them—“You can copy anything you see.”
“How
