“I don’t mean you found fault, but you said such things as showed you knew what you were talking about, and were not talking just for effect.”
“Aunt Helen taught me about pictures as we went through Europe, and so I suppose that is why I have a little sense about them,” said Nan modestly.
“Ah, that is just it. Because you have seen the best under a wise teacher you can tell. It is the same with poetry, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, Aunt Helen has guided me there, too, though I always loved to pore over the old poets in my father’s library.”
Mr. Wells nodded with approving smiles. “I wonder why people nowadays are ashamed to confess to loving poetry. As to quoting it, almost any one will smile if you begin to do that, yet in the old days, not so very old ones either, it was quite an accomplishment. Once in a while, in secluded spots, you will run across some old fellow who will quote Moore and Byron with his hand on his heart.”
“Cousin Martin Boyd, down in Virginia, still does that. He is a gentleman of the old school, and his gallantries are so funny, still I always thought them delightful.”
“I’ve not a doubt but that they are, though I can easily see how he couldn’t help being gallant in the presence of certain persons.”
Nan had no reply to make to this, and feeling very conscious, she turned to where the canoes were moored. On the way Mr. Wells stopped to gather a bunch of yellow buttercups. “These will just match your tie,” he said to her as he handed them over. “Isn’t it strange that they should be blossoming in September?”
“I have noticed that the flowers don’t keep track of the season up here,” she answered, putting the buttercups in her belt with a resolve to treasure them and press them when the day was done.
“Tell me about your home,” said Mr. Wells as they were gliding along over the lake, and Nan described the old brown house, the rambling garden, the hillside where Place o’ Pines used to be, the ruined walls of Uplands, the sunset tree where she had met her Aunt Helen, the mountain forests and all the rest of it. Launched upon this theme she forgot to be conscious and her descriptions were vivid and picturesque.