How can
you tell whether you're in love with me or not if- (No, I am not
shouting at all; it's your guilty conscience; I'm whispering.) How
can you tell whether you're in love with me, I repeat, unless you
keep me under constant examination?"
"That seems sensible, though I dare say it is full of sophistry; but
I have made up my mind to go into the country and paint while
Salemina and Francesca are on the Continent. One cannot think in
this whirl. A winter season in Washington followed by a summer
season in London,--one wants a breath of fresh air before beginning
another winter season somewhere else. Be a little patient, please.
I long for the calm that steals over me when I am absorbed in my
brushes and my oils."
"Work is all very well," said Mr. Beresford with determination, "but
I know your habits. You have a little way of taking your brush, and
with one savage sweep painting out a figure from your canvas. Now
if I am on the canvas of your heart,--I say 'if' tentatively and
modestly, as becomes me,--I've no intention of allowing you to paint
me out; therefore I wish to remain in the foreground, where I can
say 'Strike, but hear me,' if I discover any hostile tendencies in
your eye. But I am thankful for small favours (the 'no' you do not
quite dare say, for instance), and I'll talk it over with you to-
morrow, if the British gentry will give me an opportunity, and if
you'll deign to give me a moment alone in any other place than the
Royal Academy.
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