"Those things--what do you call them? Like what Colonel Wimpole just gave you. How are they made?"
"Oh, miniatures? They are painted on ivory with very fine brushes."
"How funny! Why do they cost so much money, then?"
His questions were like those of a little child, but his mother's expression did not change as she answered him, always with the same unvarying gentleness.
"People have to be very clever to paint them," she said. "That is why the very good ones are worth so much. It is like a good tailor, my dear, who is paid well because he makes good coats, whereas the man who only knows how to make workmen's jackets earns very little."
"That's not fair," said young Harmon. "It isn't the man's fault if he is stupid, is it?"
"No, dear, it isn't his fault, it's his misfortune."
It took the young man so long to understand this that he said nothing more, trying to think over his mother's words, and getting them by heart, for they pleased him. They walked along in the hot sun and then crossed the street opposite the Schweizerhof to reach the shade of the foolish-looking trees that have been stuck about like Nuremberg toys, between the lake and the highway. The colonel had not spoken since they had left the shop.
"How well you are looking," he said suddenly, when young Harmon had relapsed into silence. "You are as fresh as a rose."
"A rose of yesterday," said Helen Harmon, a little sadly.