"Mrs. Arnold knows better than to believe that."
"A chimerical plan, I should call it," said Mrs. Arnold.
"Not at all," added Tristram. "Most scientific. The whitewash is indelible. All charity fads must be scientific nowadays."
"Brother Tristram plays the cynic, Mrs. Arnold," said Rosalie. "But he has an excellent heart of his own."
"It is a burned-out crater," said Tristram, solemnly, at which Harry burst into a laugh and the sister smiled.
Watching her furtively, Mrs. Arnold saw that she was as exquisite a masterpiece as nature had ever put forth. Her figure was virginal and full; her manner, auroral; her age, Hebe's, the imperceptible poise of the ascending ball before it begins to descend, which in woman is earlier by a decade than in man; her coloring, a mixture of the wild rose and gold. Art seconded nature; she was faultlessly dressed. In that instant of inspection the mother knew that her son's heart had been weaned from her forever. She had always felt that it would be a blonde woman. Are they charged with opposite magnetisms from northern and southern poles, that they attract each other so, the dark type and the fair?
"Will you never be serious, Tristram?" cried Rosalie.
"Well, dear, the crater has humming-birds' nests built along its inner sides, like the old volcano of Chocorua, and the little winged jewels flash out sometimes and land in Sister Rosalie's lap."
"What is this?"
"You prefer rubies. I picked those up at a sale in the city. Did you ever meet such stones—perfect bulbs?"