“I thought Endymion only slept,” continued Hope Wayne; “but Mr. Newt is a judge of pictures—he knows.”
“He certainly spoke as if he knew,” persisted the painter, recklessly, as he saw and felt the usual calmness return to his companion. “He said that if Endymion were not dead he couldn’t resist such splendor of beauty.”
As Arthur Merlin spoke he looked directly into Hope Wayne’s face, as if he were speaking of her.
“Mr. Newt’s judgment seems to be better than his memory,” said she, pleasantly.
“How?”
“He forgets that Endymion did awake. He has not allowed time enough for the effect of Diana’s eyes. Now I am sure,” she said, shaking her finger at the picture, “I am sure that that silly shepherd will not sleep there forever. Never fear, he will wake up. Diana never looks or loves for nothing.”
“It will do no good if he does,” insisted Arthur, ruefully, as if he were sure that Hope Wayne understood that he was speaking in parables.
“Why?” she asked, as she rose, still looking at the picture.
“Because goddesses never marry.”
He looked into her eyes with so much meaning, and the “do they?” which he did not utter, was so perfectly expressed by his tone, that Hope Wayne, as she moved slowly toward the door, looking at the pictures on the wall as she passed, said, with her eyes upon the pictures, and not upon the painter,