Mr. Mayhew had been
made at home at once, and before he left, the artist had obtained
his promise to come again with his daughter on the following morning.
"His bearing towards father was the perfection of good breeding,"
thought Ida, and it would seem that some of the gratitude with
which her heart overflowed found its way into her tones and eyes.
"You look so pleasantly and kindly, that you must be thinking of
Mr. Eltinge," said Van Berg.
"You are not to paint my thoughts," said Ida, with a quick flush.
"I wish I could."
"I'm glad you can't."
"You do puzzle one, Miss Mayhew. On the day of our visit to the
old garden your thoughts seemed as clear to me as the water of the
little brook, and I supposed I saw all that was in your mind. But
before the day was over I felt that I did not understand you at
all."
"Mr. Van Berg, I'm astonished you are an artist."
"Because of the character of my work?"
"No, indeed. But such a wonderful taste for solving problems
suggests a metaphysician. I think you would become discouraged
with such tasks. Just think how many ladies there are in the world,
and I'm sure any one of them is a more abstruse problem than I am.
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