'I'm afraid it would make no difference. Elsie and Cissy have spent years here, and what they do does not amount to much. They wander from method to method, abandoning each in turn. I am utterly discouraged, and made up my mind to give up painting.'
'What are you going to do?'
'I don't know. One of these days I shall find out my true vocation.'
'You're young, you are beautiful—-'
'No, I'm not beautiful, but there are times when I look nice.'
'Yes, indeed there are. Those hands, how white they are in the moonlight.' He took her hands. 'Why do you trouble and rack your soul about painting? A woman's hands are too beautiful for a palette and brushes.'
The words were on her tongue to ask him if he did not admire Rose's hands equally, but remembering the place, the hour, and the fact of her having made his acquaintance only a few hours before, she thought it more becoming to withdraw her hands, and to say:
'The others do not seem to be coming back. We had better return.'
They moved out of the shadows of the pines, and stood looking down the sandy pathway.
'How filmy and grey those top branches, did you ever see anything so delicate?'