"Ahem! I noticed, Sir, as I came in, that you were looking at yonder painting."
"Yes; is it not most admirable? 'T is by a Boston artist, I see,—by Curtis."
"Indeed! 'T is a picture my father bought only last week. 'T was recommended to him by Mr. Carver; for father does not pretend to be a connoisseur. You think it good?"
"Good? 'T is exquisite! Look at the atmosphere over that water. You might feel a cool exhalation from it on a hot day. The misty freshness rolling off, and lit up by the cheery sunlight, is Nature itself. It carries me away—far away—once more to the coast of Labrador, where I spent a summer month in my youth. But, Miss Dinwiddie, how happens it that you condescend, in times like these, to patronize a Yankee artist? When Colonel Pegram comes, you must take down that picture and hide it."
Barbara started and blushed.
"What do you know, Sir, of Colonel Pegram?"
"Nothing, except that he is a fortunate man, unless Rumor belies him."
"If you refer, Sir, to that foolish report in regard to myself which was current last winter, I beg to assure you there is no truth in it."
"Not now, perhaps."
"Never shall it be true!" exclaimed Barbara, starting up and pacing the floor.