“Arthur! Arthur!” and his aunt despairingly patted her knees slowly with her hands.
“But her name is not Mary.”
Aunt Winnifred looked surprised.
“Her name is Diana.”
“Diana?” echoed his aunt, as if she were losing her mind. “Oh! I beg your pardon. Then it’s only a portrait after all? Yes, yes. Diana who?”
Arthur Merlin curled one foot under him as he sat, and, lighting a fresh cigar, told Aunt Winnifred the lovely legend of Latmos—talking of Diana and Endymion, and thinking of Hope Wayne and Arthur Merlin.
Aunt Winnifred listened with the utmost interest and patience. Her nephew was eloquent. Well, well, thought the old lady, if interest in his pursuit makes a great painter, my dear nephew will be a great man. During the course of the story Arthur paused several times, evidently lost in reverie—perhaps tracing the analogy. When he ended there was a moment’s silence. Then Aunt Winnifred looked kindly at him, and said:
“Well?”
“Well,” said Arthur, as he uncurled his leg, and with a half sigh, as if it were pleasanter to tell old legends of love than to paint modern portraits.
“Is that the whole?”