American fiction -- 19th century; Artists -- Fiction
"You have a strange way of proving it. All that is asked of you is
to sit at the same table with a gentleman who has won the respect
and admiration of every one in the hotel, whose society is peculiarly
agreeable to your mother and myself, and who has also shown unusual
courtesy towards you ever since he learned who you were. What
else can I think--what else can others think, than that your taste
leans so decidedly to the Sibley style that you cannot even be
polite to a man of high culture and genuine worth?"
"You are too severe, Ik," said Mrs. Mayhew. "For some reason that
I cannot fathom, Ida does not like this artist; and yet I think
myself that she would subject herself to very unpleasant remarks
if she made any trouble about sitting at the same table with him."
"Can you not see," retorted Ida, irritably, "that Ik has not
considered us at all, but only himself? He wishes to be near Miss
Burton, and without giving us any chance to object, has made all
the arrangements so that we must either comply or else be the talk
of the house. It's just a piece of his selfishness," she concluded
with tears of vexation in her eyes.
"Oh, come Ida!" said her mother coaxingly, "I can see only a mole-hill
in this matter, and I wouldn't make a mountain out of it. As far
as I am concerned, I should enjoy the change very much, and, as you
say, the affair has gone too far now to make objection. I do not
intend that either you or myself shall be the subject of unpleasant
remark."
And so the matter was settled, but Ida's coldness and constraint,
when they all met at dinner, very clearly indicated that the change
had been made without her consent. Van Berg addressed her affably
two or three times, but received brief and discouraging answers.
"Your cousin evidently is not pleased with the new arrangement you
have brought about. I cannot see what I have done of late to vex
her."
"I'll tell you the trouble. You offend her by not being the
counterpart of Mr. Sibley," said Stanton, irritably.
Van Berg's brow darkened. "Do you think," he asked in a meaning
tone, "that she understands what kind of a man he is?"
"Oh, she knows that he can dance, flirt, and talk nonsense, and
she asks for nothing more and thinks of nothing further. I'm out
of patience with her."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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