“Her—clothes are very beautiful, I suppose,” ventured Rue.
“Well—they’re very—smart. Everything about her is smart. Her Sunday night suppers are wonderful. You meet people who do things—all sorts—everybody who is somebody.”
He turned to her frankly:
“I think myself very lucky that the Princess Mistchenka should be my friend, because, honestly, Miss Carew, I don’t see what there is in me to interest such a woman.”
Rue thought she could see, but remained silent.
“If I had my way,” said Neeland, a few moments later, “I’d drop illustrating and paint battle scenes. But it wouldn’t pay, you see.”
“Couldn’t you support yourself by painting battles?”
“Not yet,” he said honestly. “Of course I have hopes—intentions––” he laughed, drew his reins; the silvery chimes clashed and jingled and flashed in the moonlight; they had arrived.
At the door he said:
“I hope some day you’ll have a chance to take lessons. Thank you for dancing with me.... If you ever do come to New York to study, I hope you’ll let me know.”