Constance.—"Ah, yes! My picture. Mr. Bartlett has been telling you." Her eyes have already wandered away from Cummings, and they now dwell, with a furtive light of reparation and imploring upon Bartlett's disheartened patience: "Good morning." It is a delicately tentative salutation, in a low voice, still fluttered by her nervous agitation.
Bartlett, in dull despair: "Good morning."
Constance.—"How is the light on the mountain this morning?" She drifts deprecatingly up to the picture, near which Bartlett has stolidly kept his place.
Bartlett, in apathetic inattention.—"Oh, very well, very well indeed, thank you."
Constance, after a hesitating glance at him.—"Did you like what I had done on it yesterday?"
Bartlett, very much as before.—"Oh, yes; why not?"
Constance, with a meek subtlety.—"I was afraid I had vexed you—by it." She bends an appealing glance upon him, to which Bartlett remains impervious, and she drops her eyes with a faint sigh. Then she lifts them again: "I was afraid I had—made the distance too blue."
Bartlett.—"Oh, no; not at all."