Only Ik thinks he's wonderful. He has probably
blinded our cousin to his faults by painting a flattering likeness
of the vain youth here."
"But in suggesting another portrait that was not altogether pleasing,
he sinned beyond hope," whispered Stanton.
Ida bit her lip and frowned, recalling the obnoxious artist's portrait
of herself as giggling and flirting through one of Beethoven's
symphonies; and she said spitefully:
"He can never hope for anything from me."
"Poor, hopeless wretch!" groaned Stanton. "How can he sip his tea
yonder so complacently oblivious of his doom?"
"Mother, I'm in earnest," resumed the daughter. "I have reasons
for disliking that man, and I do not wish the annoyance of his
acquaintance."
"Well, well," said Mrs. Mayhew; "as long as the wind blows from
that cool quarter, we can keep cool till it changes. If I mistake
not, he is the same gentleman who met us in the corridor. I'm sure
he has fine manners."
"If it is fine manners in a man to nearly run over two ladies, he
is perfect. But I am sick of hearing about him, and especially
of seeing him. I insist, Ik, that you have our table changed to
yonder corner, and then arrange it so that I can sit with my back
towards him.
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