“Vy, dat is out of season,” said Mr. Bruder, with a laugh.
“No, now is just the time. It is a nice cool subject for this hot weather. Please oblige me; for certain reasons I wish to be able to paint ice perfectly.”
Arctic scenery was Mr. Bruder’s forte, on which he specially prided himself. He was too much of a gentleman to ask questions, and was delighted to find the old zest returning in his pupil. They were soon constructing bergs, caves, and grottoes of cold blue ice. Evening after evening, while sufficient light lasted, they worked at this study. Dennis’s whole soul seemed bent on the formation of ice. After a month of labor Mr. Bruder said, “I hope you vill get over dis by fall, or ve all freeze to death.”
“One of these days I shall explain,” said Dennis, smiling.
The evening of the second day after the little rencounter in the showroom, Mr. Ludolph sat enjoying his cigar, and Christine was at the piano playing a difficult piece of music.
“Come, father,” she said, “here is a fine thing just from Germany. There is a splendid tenor solo in it, and I want you to sing it for me.”
“Pshaw!” said her father, “why did I not think of it before?” and he rang the bell. “Here, Brandt, go down to the store, and if Mr. Fleet is there ask him if he will come up to my rooms for a little while.”
Brandt met Dennis just starting for his painting lesson, but led him a willing captive, to give Christine instruction unconsciously.
She, whose strategy had brought it all about, smiled at her success. It was not her father’s tenor she wanted, but Dennis’s face; and her father should unknowingly work her will. The girl had learned so much from the wily man of the world that she was becoming his master.
Dennis came and entered with a thrill of delight what was to him enchanted ground. Mr. Ludolph was affable, Christine kind, but she looked more than she said.
Dennis sang the solo, after one or two efforts, correctly. Then Mr. Ludolph brought out a piece of music that he wished to try; Christine found others; and before they knew it the evening had passed. Quite a knot of delighted listeners gathered in the street opposite. This Christine pointed out to her father with evident annoyance.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “hotel life in a crowded city renders escape from such things impossible.”
But a purpose was growing in her mind of which she spoke soon after. Throughout the evening she had studied Dennis’s face as much as she could without attracting notice, and the thought grew upon her that at last she had found a path to the success she so craved.
“You seem to have gone to work with your old interest,” said her father, as he came out of his room the next morning and found Christine at her easel.
“I shall try it again,” she said, briefly.
“That is right,” said he. “The idea of being daunted by one partial failure! I predict for you such success as will satisfy even your fastidious taste.”
“We shall see,” she said. “I hope, too.” But she would not have her father know on what grounds. He might regard the experiment as a dangerous one for herself as well as for Dennis, and she decided to keep her plan entirely secret.
She now came to the store daily, and rarely went away without giving Dennis a smile or word of recognition. But he noticed that she ever did this in a casual manner, and in a way that would not attract attention. He also took the hint, and never was obtrusive or demonstrative, but it was harder work for his frank nature. When unobserved, his glances grew more ardent day by day. So far from checking these, she encouraged them, but, when in any way he sought to put his feelings into words, she changed the subject instantly and decidedly. This puzzled him, for he did not understand that looks could be painted, but not words. The latter were of no use to her. But she led him on skilfully, and, from the unbounded power his love gave her, played upon his feelings as adroitly as she touched her grand piano.
Soon after the company at Miss Winthrop’s, she said to him, “You received several invitations the other evening, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Accept them. Go into society. It will do you good.” Thus he soon found himself involved in a round of sociables, musicales, and now and then a large party. Christine was usually present, radiant, brilliant, the cynosure of all eyes, but ever coolly self-possessed. At first she would greet him with distant politeness, or pretend not to see him at all, but before the evening was over would manage to give him a half-hour in which she would be kind and even gentle at times, but very observant. Then for the rest of the evening he would find no chance to approach. It appeared that she was deeply interested in him, enjoyed his society, and was even becoming attached to him, but that for some reason she determined that no one should notice this, and that matters should only go so far. Poor Dennis could not know that he was only her unconscious instructor in painting, paid solely in the coin of false smiles and delusive hopes. At times, though, she would torture him dreadfully. Selecting one of her many admirers, she would seem to smile upon his suit, and poor Dennis would writhe in all the agonies of jealousy, for he was very human, and had all the normal feeling of a strong man. She would then watch his face grow pale and his manner restless, as quietly and critically as an entomologist regards the struggles of an insect beneath his microscope. Again, she would come to him all grace and sweetness, and his fine
