way of putting your hand under the elbow of the arm that holds your parasol,”--Florida seemed disdainfully to keep her attitude, and the painter smiled,--“but they wouldn’t know what it all meant, and couldn’t imagine that we were inspired by this rascally little villa to sigh longingly over the wicked past.” “Excuse me,” interrupted Florida, with a touch of trouble in her proud manner, “I’m not sighing over it, for one, and I don’t want it back. I’m glad that I’m American and that there is no past for me. I can’t understand how you and Don Ippolito can speak so tolerantly of what no one can respect,” she added, in almost an aggrieved tone. If Miss Vervain wanted to turn the talk upon Don Ippolito, Ferris by no means did; he had had enough of that subject yesterday; he got as lightly away from it as he could. “Oh, Don Ippolito’s a pagan, I tell you; and I’m a painter, and the rococo is my weakness. I wish I could paint it, but I can’t; I’m a hundred years too late. I couldn’t even paint myself in the act of sentimentalizing it.” While he talked, he had been making a few lines in a small pocket sketch-book, with a furtive glance or two at Florida. When they returned to the boat, he busied himself again with the book, and presently he handed it to Mrs. Vervain. “Why, it’s Florida!” cried the lady. “How very nicely you do sketch, Mr. Ferris.” “Thanks, Mrs. Vervain; you’re always flattering me.” “No, but seriously. I _wish_ that I had paid more attention to my drawing when I was a girl. And now, Florida--she won’t touch a pencil. I wish you’d talk to her, Mr. Ferris.” “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.