Bartlett.—"How did you know?"
Constance.—"I thought you would come,—that you would upbraid yourself for my bad behaviour, and return to excuse it to me. You see what perfect faith I—we—have in you."
Bartlett, earnestly.—"Have you indeed perfect faith in me?"
Constance.—"Perfect!"
Bartlett, vehemently.—"But why, why do you trust me? You see that I am hasty and rude."
Constance.—"Oh no, not rude."
Bartlett.—"But I assure you that I am so; and you have seen that I laughed—that I am wanting in delicacy, and"—
Constance, devoutly.—"How can you say that to us, when every day, every hour, every instant of the last month has given us proof of unimaginable kindness in you!" He eagerly approaches and takes her hands, which she frankly yields him. "Your patience, your noble forbearance, which we so sorely tried, has made us all forget that you are a stranger, and—and—to me it's as if we had always known you"—her head droops—"as if you were a—an old friend, a—brother"—
Bartlett, dropping her hands.—"Oh!" He turns away, and pacing the length of the room reapproaches her hastily.
Constance, with a little cry.—"Mr. Bartlett! Do look! Did you intend to trample my canvas and colours under foot?" She makes as if to stoop for them.