I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my suspicion—
"I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the pleasure of seeing you."
This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing himself. And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement; for I could not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be guilty of such a white lie as many a gentleman would have thought justifiable on the occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little stiff, for presently he said—
"If you will excuse me, I will return to my work."
Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy during the interview.
"It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with you—capable of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any moment."
"To tell the truth," he answered, "I am a little ashamed of being found sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies. But it is a change."
"It is very beautiful here," I said, in a tone of contravention.
"It is very pretty," he answered—"very lovely, if you will—not very beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger regard. Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this place was fanciful—the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in her large serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only pretty, about which boys and guardsmen will rave—to me not very interesting, save for its single lines."
"Why, then, do you sketch the place?"