But she chafed inwardly at her false position, and at the
increasing popularity of the object of her spite.
Even her mother at last formed his acquaintance; and, as the artist
listened to the garrulous lady for half an hour with scarcely an
interruption, she pronounced him one of the most entertaining of
men.
As Mrs. Mayhew was chanting his praises that evening, Ida broke
out petulantly:
"Was there ever such a gad-fly as this artist! He pesters me from
morning till night."
"Pesters you! I never saw a lady so severely let alone as you are
by him. Whatever is the cause of your spite it seems to harm only
yourself, and I should judge from your remark that it disturbs you
much more than you would have it appear--certainly far more than
it does him."
There was no soothing balm in these words, as may well be supposed;
and yet the impression grew upon Ida that the artist would be
friendly if he could; and the belief strengthened with him also
that she took far too much pains to manifest what she would have
others think to be mere indifference and dislike, and he intercepted
besides, with increasing frequency, furtive glances towards himself.
So much ice had accumulated between them, however that neither knew
how it was to be broken.
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