"But I love beautiful things," protested Mariana. She looked at him wistfully, like a child desiring approbation. There was an amber light in her eyes.
He smiled upon her.
"So do I," he made answer; "but to me each one of those nice little specimens is a special revelation of beauty."
The girl broke her bread daintily. "You misunderstand me," she said, with flattering earnestness and a deprecatory inflection in her voice. Her head drooped sideways on its slender throat. There was a virginal illusiveness about her that tinged with seriousness the lightness of her words. "Surely you love art," she said.
"Oh, I like painting, if that is what you mean," he answered, carelessly, though her image in his eyes was relieved against a sudden warmth. "That is, I like Raphael and Murillo and a few of the modern French fellows. As for music, I don't know one note from another. The only air I ever caught was 'In the Fragrant Summer-time,' and that was an accident. I thought it was 'Maryland.'"
Mariana did not smile. She shrank from him, and he felt as if he had struck her.
"It isn't worth your thinking of," he said, "nor am I."
Mariana protested with her restless hands.
"Oh, but I can't help thinking of it," she answered. "It is dreadful. Why, such things are a part of my religion!"
He returned her startled gaze with one of amusement.