“That is one of the many things I have apologised for. You surely do not wish to taunt me with it again?”
“Oh, I don’t mean the recent accident. I mean being here in America. Your sketches of the Shawenegan Falls, and your description of the Quebec district, brought me out to America; and, added to that—I expected to meet you.”
“To meet me?”
“Certainly. Perhaps you don’t know that I called at Beacon Street, and found you were from home—with friends in Canada, they said—and I want to say, in self-defence, that I came very well introduced. I brought letters to people in Boston of the most undoubted respectability, and to people in New York, who are as near the social equals of the Boston people as it is possible for mere New York persons to be. Among other letters of introduction I had two to you. I saw the house in Beacon Street. So, you see, I have no delusions about your being a backwoods girl, as you charged me with having a short time since.”
“I would rather not refer to that again, if you please.”
“Very well. Now, I have one question to ask you—one request to make. Have I your permission to make it?”
“It depends entirely on what your request is.”
“Of course, in that case you cannot tell until I make it. So I shall now make my request, and I want you to remember, before you refuse it, that you are indebted to me for supper. Miss Sommerton, give me a plug of tobacco.”
Miss Sommerton stood up in dumb amazement.
“You see,” continued the artist, paying no heed to her evident resentment, “I have lost my tobacco in the marine disaster, but luckily I have my pipe. I admit the scenery is beautiful here, if we could only see it; but darkness is all around, although the moon is rising. It can therefore be no desecration for me to smoke a pipeful of tobacco, and I am sure the tobacco you keep will be the very best that can be bought. Won’t you grant my request, Miss Sommerton?”