The artist was both hurt and perplexed, and he abruptly left the
hall and started again on the walk which had been so unexpectedly
interrupted. He strode away through the starlight with a swiftness
that was scarcely in harmony with the warm, still summer night.
Before he was aware of it he was a mile away. Stopping suddenly
he muttered:
"I won't be so baffled and puzzled. I will learn to understand
this Ida Mayhew before this summer is over. It's ridiculous that
I should be so dull and stupid. She says she fears we are 'fated
to misunderstand each other.' I defy such a blind stupid fate. I
used to have some brains and tact before I came to this place, and
I scarcely think I've become an idiot. I am determined to win that
girl's friendship, and I intend to follow her career and watch the
rare and beautiful development of her character. That one hour in
the garden yesterday taught me what an inspiration her exquisite
beauty can be in my profession, and surely with the vantage-ground I
already possess I ought to have skill enough to win a place among
her friends," and he walked back almost as quickly as he had stalked
away.
Ida had seen his departure and recognized the fact that she had
hurt his feelings.
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