“Oh yes; that! But you could vary it so as to save your conscience. You could say, 'How divinely you're looking!' or 'How angelic!' or 'You're the very poetry of motion,' or 'You are grace itself,' or 'Your gown is a perfect dream, or any little commonplace, and every one would take it for praise of her personal appearance, and feel herself a great beauty, just as I do now, though I know very well that I'm all out of drawing, and just chicqued together.” “I couldn't allow any one but you to say that, Miss Bessie; and I only let it pass because you say it so well.” “Yes; you're always so good! You wouldn't contradict me even when you turned me out of your class.” “Did I turn you out of my class?” “Not just in so many words, but when I said I couldn't do anything in art, you didn't insist that it was because I wouldn't, and of course then I had to go. I've never forgiven you, Mr. Westover, never! Do keep on talking very excitedly; there's a man coming up to us that I don't want to think I see him, or he'll stop. There! He's veered off! Where were you, Mr. Westover?” “Ah, Miss Bessie,” said the painter; delighted at her drama, “there isn't anything you couldn't do if you would.” “You mean parlor entertainments; impersonations; impressions; that sort of thing? I have thought of it. But it would be too easy. I want to try something difficult.” “For instance.” “Well, being very, very good. I want something that would really tax my powers. I should like to be an example. I tried it the other night just before I went to sleep, and it was fine. I became an example to others. But when I woke up--I went on in the old way. I want something hard, don't you know; but I want it to be easy!” She laughed, and Westover said: “I am glad you're not serious. No one ought to be an example to others. To be exemplary is as dangerous as to be complimentary. “It certainly isn't so agreeable to the object,” said the girl. “But it's fine for the subject as long as it lasts. How metaphysical we're getting! The objective and the subjective. It's quite what I should expect of talk at a Boston dance if I were a New-Yorker. Have you seen anything of my brother, within the last hour or so, Mr. Westover?” “Yes; I just left him in the supper-room. Shall I go get him for you?” When he had said this, with the notion of rescuing him from Jeff, Westover was sorry, for he doubted if Alan Lynde were any longer in the state to be brought away from the supper-room, and he was glad to have Bessie say: “No, no. He'll look us up in the course of the evening--or the morning.” A young fellow came to claim her for a dance, and Westover had not the face to leave Miss Lynde, all the less because she told him he must not think of staying. He stayed till the dance was over, and Bessie came back to him. “What time is it, Mr. Westover? I see my aunt beginning to nod on her perch.” Westover looked at his watch. “It's ten minutes past two.”