‘They are not like yours, though they are perhaps just as impossible.’ She spoke in a broken, unconnected manner, like one who was talking aloud the thoughts that came laggingly; then with a sudden earnestness she said, ‘I’ll tell you one of them. It’s to catch the broad bold light that has just beat on the old castle there, and brought out all its rich tints of greys and yellows in such a glorious wealth of colour. Place my easel here, under the trees; spread that rug for yourself to lie on. No—you won’t have it? Well, fold it neatly, and place it there for my feet: very nicely done. And now, Signer Ribello, you may unpack that basket, and arrange our breakfast, and when you have done all these, throw yourself down on the grass, and either tell me a pretty story, or recite some nice verses for me, or be otherwise amusing and agreeable.’
‘Shall I do what will best please myself? If so, it will be to lie here and look at you.’
‘Be it so,’ said she, with a sigh. ‘I have always thought, in looking at them, how saints are bored by being worshipped—it adds fearfully to martyrdom, but happily I am used to it. “Oh, the vanity of that girl!” Yes, sir, say it out: tell her frankly that if she has no friend to caution her against this besetting wile, that you will be that friend. Tell her that whatever she has of attraction is spoiled and marred by this self-consciousness, and that just as you are a rebel without knowing it, so should she be charming and never suspect it. Is not that coming nicely,’ said she, pointing to the drawing; ‘see how that tender light is carried down from those grey walls to the banks beneath, and dies away in that little pool, where the faintest breath of air is rustling. Don’t look at me, sir, look at my drawing.’
‘True, there is no tender light there,’ muttered he, gazing at her eyes, where the enormous size of the pupils had given a character of steadfast brilliancy, quite independent of shape, or size, or colour.
‘You know very little about it,’ said she saucily; then, bending over the drawing, she said, ‘That middle distance wants a bit of colour: you shall aid me here.’
‘How am I to aid you?’ asked he, in sheer simplicity.
‘I mean that you should be that bit of colour. There, take my scarlet cloak, and perch yourself yonder on that low rock. A few minutes will do. Was there ever immortality so cheaply purchased! Your biographer shall tell that you were the figure in that famous sketch—what will be called in the cant of art, one of Nina Kostalergi’s earliest and happiest efforts. There, now, dear Mr. Donogan, do as you are bid.’
‘Do you know the Greek ballad, where a youth remembers that the word “dear” has been coupled with his name—a passing courtesy, if even so much, but enough to light up a whole chamber in his heart?’
‘I know nothing of Greek ballads. How does it go?’
‘It is a simple melody, in a low key.’ And he sang, in a deep but tremulous voice, to a very plaintive air—