“Oh, people who are pictures needn’t trouble themselves to be painters,” said Ferris, with a little burlesque.
Mrs. Vervain began to look at the sketch through her tubed hand; the painter made a grimace. “But you’ve made her too proud, Mr. Ferris. She doesn’t look like that.”
“Yes she does—to those unworthy of her kindness. I have taken Miss Vervain in the act of scorning the rococo, and its humble admirer, me, with it.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Ferris; but I can’t think that this proud look is habitual with Florida; and I’ve heard people say—very good judges—that an artist oughtn’t to perpetuate a temporary expression. Something like that.”
“It can’t be helped now, Mrs. Vervain: the sketch is irretrievably immortal. I’m sorry, but it’s too late.”
“Oh, stuff! As if you couldn’t turn up the corners of the mouth a little. Or something.”
“And give her the appearance of laughing at me? Never!”
“Don Ippolito,” said Mrs. Vervain, turning to the priest, who had been listening intently to all this trivial talk, “what do you think of this sketch?”
He took the book with an eager hand, and perused the sketch as if trying to read some secret there. After a minute he handed it back with a light sigh, apparently of relief, but said nothing.
“Well?” asked Mrs. Vervain.