“To love and keep my faith to Armstrong Dale?” she said gently; and the love-light shone brightly in the eyes which met the old man’s now without shrinking.
“Yes; that’s what I meant, little one. I don’t know how you could get yourself engaged to him.”
Cornel laughed gently—a pleasant, silvery little laugh, which seemed to do the patient good, for he smiled and listened to the last note of the musical sounds. But he grew serious, and there was a cynicism in his tones as he went on.
“I don’t believe in him, my girl. He’s good-looking and a bit clever; but when you have said that, you have said all.”
A little white finger was laid upon the speaker’s lips, but he went on.
“I know: he gammoned you with his love nonsense, but if he had been the fellow I took him for, he’d have stayed here in Boston and painted and glazed. Painted you. Painted me—glazed me too, if he had liked. What did he want to go and study at Rome and Paris and London for? We’ve cleverer people in the States than out there.”
“To get breadth, and learn his own failings,” said Cornel gently.
“Hadn’t any—I mean he was full of ’em, of course. Couldn’t have loved you, or he’d have stopped at home.”
“It was to show his love for me, and to try and make himself a master of his art, that he went away,” said Cornel, with a look of faith and pride in her eyes.
“Bah! He has forgotten you by this time. Give him up, puss. He’ll never come back. He’ll marry some fine madam in the old country.”