"You say you were 'shown' all this beauty," remarked Ida, who was giving the finishing touches to her toilet before a large mirror, and by whom the frequent bickerings of her parents were scarcely noted. "Who officiated as showman?"
"A man who understands the beauties of a landscape so well that he could make them visible even to my dim eyes, and attractive to my deadened and besotted nature. I'd give all the world if I could be young, strong, and hopeful like him, again. It was good of him—yes, good of him, to try to cheer a stranger with pleasant thoughts and sights. I suppose you are acquainted with Mr. Van Berg, since he is a friend of Ik's?"
"No, I'm not," was the sharp reply; "nor do I wish to be."
"Why not?" asked Mr. Mayhew in some surprise.
"It's sufficient that I don't like him."
"He's not your style, I suppose you mean to say?"
"Indeed he is not."
"So much worse for your style, Ida."
She was sweeping petulantly from the room when her father added with a depth of feeling very unlike his wonted apathy: "O, Ida, it were better that all three of us had never been born than to live as we do! Your life and your mother's is froth, and mine is mud. How I hated it all this bright June morning, as Mr. Van Berg gave me a glimpse into another and better world!"
"Do you mean to say that Mr. Van Berg presumed to criticise my mode of life?" Ida asked with a darkening face.