The next day she found an opportunity to say this frankly. During the morning she strolled into the garden with a book, and there encountered Earle, leaning on a stone-wall that skirted the lower boundaries of the grounds, sketching a pretty meadow and group of trees beyond. She came upon him unobserved—for he was standing with his back to the path along which she advanced,—and the sound of her clear, musical voice was the first intimation he had of her presence.
"How rapidly you sketch, Mr. Earle, and how well!" she said.
He started and turned, to find her standing so near that she overlooked his work. She smiled as his astonished eyes met her own. "Do I disturb you?" she asked. "If so I will go away."
"You have certainly not disturbed me up to the present moment," he answered. "Have you been here long?"
"Only a few minutes. You were so absorbed that you did not observe me, and I was so interested in watching you that I did not care to speak. But if I disturb you—"
"Why should you disturb me if you care to stay? You will not obstruct my view of the meadow or trees. It is a pretty little scene, is it not?"
"Very," she answered, moving to the wall, at which she paused, a few feet distant from him, and laid her book down on the ledge which it conveniently presented. Then she stood silent for a minute, looking at the shadow-dappled landscape, and conscious of a sense of pique, provoked by the cool indifference of his reply. She knew that to many men her presence would obstruct their view of the fairest scene nature might present, and she could perceive no reason why this man should be different from them,—why her beauty, which his artist-glance had evidently appreciated, seemed to have so little effect upon him. Her vanity had become more insistent in its demands, from the homage which had been offered her; and the withholding this homage had already become a thing insufferable. But she was far too proud to show this, as many weaker women do; and, after a short interval, she said, lightly enough:—
"What a very great pleasure it must be when one is able to set down beauty as you are doing—to preserve and make it one's own! I have a friend who loves art devotedly—in fact, she is a true artist,—and I have always the same feeling when I watch her at work."
"The power is certainly a great delight," said Earle, going on with his rapid strokes; "but you must not imagine that it is all delight. There is a great deal of drudgery in this as in all other arts; and, worse still, there are times of infinite disgust as well as profound discouragement."
"So Claire used to say—at least, she spoke of discouragement, but I never heard her speak of disgust."