“You ask me so many questions, Miss Allen, that I do not know which to answer first.”
She looked archly at Vance, and said: “Do not answer either of them, for I know I would be dissatisfied with your reply. Is not that a beautiful botanical specimen? Really, Mr. Gilder,” she continued, “I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I know you will think me awfully stupid.”
The well modulated and lisping voice of Bertha Allen possessed a charm of its own, and Vance found himself interested in studying the difference between the sweet, simple, unaffected Louise, and the affected, calculating Miss Allen.
“Don’t you think, Mr. Gilder, that Louise has great individuality?”
“I believe her to be a most exemplary young lady,” replied Vance, “and possessed of a good mind.”
“Oh, you think that, do you?” said Bertha, lisping and laughing like the silvery tones of a flute. “You are not the only one, Mr. Gilder, that thinks that way. I mean Cousin Arthur. Oh, he’s awfully smitten.”
“Indeed!” replied Vance.
“What a beautiful picture,” said Bertha presently. “The waters mirror the trees and the mountains so distinctly. Let us look over the bank at our own reflections.”
“Permit me to hold your hand,” said Vance, “and I will prevent your falling. There—can you see yourself?”
“Oh, just splendidly!” lisped Bertha, “it is clear as a French plate mirror. Shall I support you, Mr. Gilder, while you look?”