“A water-color, eh?” said Mr. Derwent; then as Betsy looked at him in surprise, he smiled again.
“These capricious ears of mine like a racket,” he said. “The more the orchestra and the clatter of voices and feet deafen you, the more they make me hear. That’s pretty, that’s very pretty.”
The clerk had produced the picture, and Mr. Derwent gazed upon the waterfall, the spray dashing up its golden cliffs; and Betsy gazed eagerly at him. He could hear her. That was more exciting than the prospect of seeing on the morrow this climax of beauty in the great Park.
“We ought not to have looked at this until after we had visited the canyon,” suggested Mr. Derwent. “Paint is cheap, and disappointments are bitter.”
“The picture’s just beautiful, though,” said Betsy.
“And not a bit too bright,” declared the clerk. “There couldn’t any picture do justice to it.”
“You like it, do you, Miss Foster? Did you buy one?”
“No, sir. I’ve got a postal of it, though, in this set of cards.”
“I will take this,” said Mr. Derwent to the clerk, passing her the water-color.
While the picture was being put into its envelope, and the clerk was making the change, Betsy’s wits were working fast. How, how to make the most of this golden opportunity! She shrank from the appearance of begging even for the winning girl she had left behind her. It did not help matters nor lessen her embarrassment to have her companion hand her the envelope containing the water-color.