“I never fall in love,” he said gravely; “not even with myself.”
The girl laughed out, putting her arms defiantly akimbo.
“Then I would not be a suitor there,” she said.
“To me? And why not?”
“Because no man ever loved a woman well that did not love himself better.”
She took her sun-bonnet and pitcher from the low wall.
“I have heard of such as you,” she said. “It is to make your art your mistress, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Ned. “Come and see why.”
He held the sketch out to her. He had been working at it all the time he talked.
“Little Holy Mother!” she murmured, after a vain attempt to repress her curiosity, “is that I?”