“But Paula is no poet,” returned that lady with strict and impartial honesty. “She has never put a line on paper to my knowledge. Have you child?”
“No aunt, I would as soon imprison a falling sunbeam or try to catch the breeze that lifts my hair or kisses my cheek.”
“You see,” continued Mr. Sylvester still looking at Miss Belinda.
She answered with a doubtful shake of the head and an earnest glance at the girl as if she perceived something in that bright young soul, that even she had never observed before.
“Have you ever been away from home?” he now asked.
“Never, I know as little of the great world as a callow nestling. No, I should not say that, for the young bird has no Aunt Belinda to tell of the great cathedrals and the wonderful music she has heard and the glorious pictures she has seen in her visits to the city. It is almost as good as travelling one’s self to hear Aunt Belinda talk.”
It was now the turn of the mature plain woman to blush, which she did under Mr. Sylvester’s searching eye.
“You have then been in the habit of visiting New York?”
“I have been there twice,” she returned evasively.
“Since my marriage?”