“There’s a very interesting picture in the ‘morgue,’ by a new artist of course, that I’d like to have you see, Nels.” He broke off, for Nels had been drawn away by some fellow students and Dorothy had followed him, leaving him alone with Ruth.
“Never mind; perhaps you’ll be interested, Miss Mayfield.”
Ruth thought she detected the faintest trace of hesitancy in his voice whenever he pronounced her name.
“Is New York your home?” he asked.
“It is now. I came from Indiana, but my mother died a few months ago and I am living with friends here.”
“How sad; you have no relatives then?”
“No.”
His eyes were searching her face and she felt that he must see that she was lying.
“Do you paint?” she asked.
“Oh no, this art thing is a new fad with me—that is of course I’ve always been interested in beautiful things, but it’s only recently that I’ve been actively interested. I’m afraid I’m a dilettante—rather an awkward confession for a man of forty-one to make, but it’s true. I thought I had a career as an astronomer, but I gave that up some years ago, and since then I’ve tried a bit of everything. One must play some sort of game, you know. It must be wonderful to be like that little girl with Nels. Her game will be earning a living for some time to come—”