John laughed. “Look out, old man,” said he; “only a poet is allowed to fall in love with his own creation. Never say I have not given you fair warning. Ten Eyck was very attentive to her at one time; and the world believed that she wanted to marry him. But he was appointed chargé d’affaires at London; and left her without bringing matters to an issue. Since then, when he has been back in New York once or twice, he has entirely dropped her.”
“And do you mean to say that she still cares for him after that?”
“So the world thinks; and the world is apt to be right in such matters.”
“Bah!” said Vane. “No woman could care for a man who had once led her to believe he loved her, and left her.”
“Humph!” answered John. “That may be true of woman in the abstract; but I am not sure of its truth in this longitude. It is easier to judge woman in general than a New York girl in particular.”
“At all events,” said Vane, “I give her full leave to try her skill on me, skilful as you say she is. Indeed, if you think she is fair game for what you call a flirtation, you have removed my only scruples.”
“Very well, old boy—go in. But Miss Thomas once told another girl that she could understand any man in two days’ acquaintance. Don’t go in too deep.”
“Nonsense!” thought Vane when John had left. “I flatter myself I am beyond her hurting. It is pleasant enough to have her as a friend. I wish I could wish to marry her.” And he called to his mind Brittany and that last rose. “But I am sorry if she really can still care for that man. Ten Eyck was his name? I should be sorry to like her less. How strange these American women are! Now, in France—Bah!” he broke off, “it can’t be true; and, after all, what do I care if it is?”
Vane liked her very much, and thought her very much underrated by the world; and the same afternoon, by way of vindication, he went to her house and made a long call, tête-à-tête. He had fallen into an easy companionship with her, which made her society a delightful rest and respite from the earnest stress and strain of his life, of any man’s life. They were beginning to have numerous little confidences as to people and things; views shared by them only, which gave them little private topics of conversation, nooks of thought, where they met. Thus Vane could quite shut out a third party from the conversation, and keep Miss Thomas to himself. Her cultivation and taste surprised him more and more as he knew her. This pretty little New York girl, naturally half-spoiled and petted, brought up in a particularly bourgeois household, never having been out of it and New York, had yet a range of mind and appreciation quite equal to anything he could bring her in books or in conversation. The people about her seemed totally different—different in views, in taste, in appearance, in manner. Yet she never seemed discontented at home—a common fault of children in a country where they improve upon their parents. She moved among them modestly and lovingly, like a princess unconscious of her royalty. All this thought Vane, and marvelled.
He found that even his peculiar tastes were shared. It has been mentioned that this successful young business man had a secret taste for Italian poetry. This he had been used to indulge alone; but on his mentioning it, she spoke with enthusiasm of the sweet old mediæval terza rima. Having little opinion of women’s power of purely ideal enjoyment, he had at first doubted the sincerity of this taste. Still, he brought around some old verses one day; and soon it became his habit, instead of reading alone, to pass an evening or two in a week reading with her. And so during the winter, with double the pleasure he had ever known before, they went through the familiar pages of Ariosto, Tasso and Dante. The fifth canto of the Inferno remained, however, her favorite; and with the light of her eyes upon the text Vane made a much better translation than Byron or Cary ever dreamed. She was never tired of hearing the passage beginning “Siede la terra dove nata fui.” And much practice in translation makes perfect.