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Prepared by Professor Judith Boss

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It was in the early days of April; Bernard Longueville had been
spending the winter in Rome. He had travelled northward with
the consciousness of several social duties that appealed to him
from the further side of the Alps, but he was under the charm
of the Italian spring, and he made a pretext for lingering.
He had spent five days at Siena, where he had intended to spend
but two, and still it was impossible to continue his journey.
He was a young man of a contemplative and speculative turn, and this
was his first visit to Italy, so that if he dallied by the way
he should not be harshly judged. He had a fancy for sketching,
and it was on his conscience to take a few pictorial notes.
There were two old inns at Siena, both of them very shabby
and very dirty. The one at which Longueville had taken
up his abode was entered by a dark, pestiferous arch-way,
surmounted by a sign which at a distance might have been read
by the travellers as the Dantean injunction to renounce all hope.
The other was not far off, and the day after his arrival,
as he passed it, he saw two ladies going in who evidently
belonged to the large fraternity of Anglo-Saxon tourists,
and one of whom was young and carried herself very well.
Longueville had his share--or more than his share--of gallantry,
and this incident awakened a regret. If he had gone to the other
inn he might have had charming company: at his own establishment
there was no one but an aesthetic German who smoked bad tobacco
in the dining-room. He remarked to himself that this was always
his luck, and the remark was characteristic of the man;
it was charged with the feeling of the moment, but it was not
absolutely just; it was the result of an acute impression made
by the particular occasion; but it failed in appreciation
of a providence which had sprinkled Longueville's career with
happy accidents--accidents, especially, in which his characteristic
gallantry was not allowed to rust for want of exercise.
He lounged, however, contentedly enough through these bright,
still days of a Tuscan April, drawing much entertainment from the high
picturesqueness of the things about him. Siena, a few years since,
was a flawless gift of the Middle Ages to the modern imagination.
No other Italian city could have been more interesting
to an observer fond of reconstructing obsolete manners.
This was a taste of Bernard Longueville's, who had a relish
for serious literature, and at one time had made several
lively excursions into mediaeval history. His friends thought
him very clever, and at the same time had an easy feeling
about him which was a tribute to his freedom from pedantry.
He was clever indeed, and an excellent companion; but the real
measure of his brilliancy was in the success with which
he entertained himself. He was much addicted to conversing
with his own wit, and he greatly enjoyed his own society.
Clever as he often was in talking with his friends, I am
not sure that his best things, as the phrase is, were not
for his own ears. And this was not on account of any cynical
contempt for the understanding of his fellow-creatures:
it was simply because what I have called his own society
was more of a stimulus than that of most other people.
And yet he was not for this reason fond of solitude; he was,
on the contrary, a very sociable animal. It must be admitted
at the outset that he had a nature which seemed at several points
to contradict itself, as will probably be perceived in the course of
this narration.

He entertained himself greatly with his reflections and meditations
upon Sienese architecture and early Tuscan art, upon Italian
street-life and the geological idiosyncrasies of the Apennines.
If he had only gone to the other inn, that nice-looking girl
whom he had seen passing under the dusky portal with her face
turned away from him might have broken bread with him at this
intellectual banquet. Then came a day, however, when it
seemed for a moment that if she were disposed she might gather
up the crumbs of the feast. Longueville, every morning
after breakfast, took a turn in the great square of Siena--
the vast piazza, shaped like a horse-shoe, where the market
is held beneath the windows of that crenellated palace
from whose overhanging cornice a tall, straight tower
springs up with a movement as light as that of a single
plume in the bonnet of a captain. Here he strolled about,
watching a brown contadino disembarrass his donkey, noting the
progress of half an hour's chaffer over a bundle of carrots,
wishing a young girl with eyes like animated agates would let
him sketch her, and gazing up at intervals at the beautiful,
slim tower, as it played at contrasts with the large blue air.
After he had spent the greater part of a week in these
grave considerations, he made up his mind to leave Siena.
But he was not content with what he had done for his portfolio.
Siena was eminently sketchable, but he had not been industrious.
On the last morning of his visit, as he stood staring
about him in the crowded piazza, and feeling that,
in spite of its picturesqueness, this was an awkward place
for setting up an easel, he bethought himself, by contrast,
of a quiet corner in another part of the town, which he had
chanced upon in one of his first walks--an angle of a lonely
terrace that abutted upon the city-wall, where three or four
superannuated objects seemed to slumber in the sunshine--
the open door of an empty church, with a faded fresco
exposed to the air in the arch above it, and an ancient
beggar-woman sitting beside it on a three-legged stool.
The little terrace had an old polished parapet, about as high
as a man's breast, above which was a view of strange,
sad-colored hills. Outside, to the left, the wall of the town made
an outward bend, and exposed its rugged and rusty complexion.
There was a smooth stone bench set into the wall of the church,
on which Longueville had rested for an hour, observing the
composition of the little picture of which I have indicated
the elements, and of which the parapet of the terrace would form
the foreground. The thing was what painters call a subject,
and he had promised himself to come back with his utensils.
This morning he returned to the inn and took possession of them,
and then he made his way through a labyrinth of empty streets,
lying on the edge of the town, within the wall, like the superfluous
folds of a garment whose wearer has shrunken with old age.
He reached his little grass-grown terrace, and found it
as sunny and as private as before. The old mendicant was
mumbling petitions, sacred and profane, at the church door;
but save for this the stillness was unbroken. The yellow
sunshine warmed the brown surface of the city-wall, and lighted
the hollows of the Etruscan hills. Longueville settled himself
on the empty bench, and, arranging his little portable apparatus,
began to ply his brushes. He worked for some time smoothly
and rapidly, with an agreeable sense of the absence of obstacles.
It seemed almost an interruption when, in the silent air, he heard
a distant bell in the town strike noon. Shortly after this,
there was another interruption. The sound of a soft footstep
caused him to look up; whereupon he saw a young woman standing
there and bending her eyes upon the graceful artist.
A second glance assured him that she was that nice girl
whom he had seen going into the other inn with her mother,
and suggested that she had just emerged from the little church.
He suspected, however--I hardly know why--that she had been
looking at him for some moments before he perceived her.
It would perhaps be impertinent to inquire what she thought
of him; but Longueville, in the space of an instant,
made two or three reflections upon the young lady.
One of them was to the effect that she was a handsome creature,
but that she looked rather bold; the burden of the other
was that--yes, decidedly--she was a compatriot. She turned
away almost as soon as she met his eyes; he had hardly time
to raise his hat, as, after a moment's hesitation, he proceeded
to do. She herself appeared to feel a certain hesitation;
she glanced back at the church door, as if under the impulse
to retrace her steps. She stood there a moment longer--
long enough to let him see that she was a person of easy attitudes--
and then she walked away slowly to the parapet of the terrace.
Here she stationed herself, leaning her arms upon the high
stone ledge, presenting her back to Longueville, and gazing
at rural Italy. Longueville went on with his sketch,
but less attentively than before. He wondered what this
young lady was doing there alone, and then it occurred to him
that her companion--her mother, presumably--was in the church.
The two ladies had been in the church when he arrived;
women liked to sit in churches; they had been there more than
half an hour, and the mother had not enough of it even yet.
The young lady, however, at present preferred the view that
Longueville was painting; he became aware that she had placed
herself in the very centre of his foreground. His first feeling
was that she would spoil it; his second was that she would
improve it. Little by little she turned more into profile,
leaning only one arm upon the parapet, while the other hand,
holding her folded parasol, hung down at her side.
She was motionless; it was almost as if she were standing
there on purpose to be drawn. Yes, certainly she improved
the picture. Her profile, delicate and thin, defined itself
against the sky, in the clear shadow of a coquettish hat;
her figure was light; she bent and leaned easily;
she wore a gray dress, fastened up as was then the fashion,
and displaying the broad edge of a crimson petticoat.
She kept her position; she seemed absorbed in the view.
"Is she posing--is she attitudinizing for my benefit?"
Longueville asked of himself. And then it seemed to him
that this was a needless assumption, for the prospect
was quite beautiful enough to be looked at for itself,
and there was nothing impossible in a pretty girl having
a love of fine landscape. "But posing or not," he went on,
"I will put her into my sketch. She has simply put herself in.
It will give it a human interest. There is nothing like having
a human interest." So, with the ready skill that he possessed,
he introduced the young girl's figure into his foreground,
and at the end of ten minutes he had almost made something
that had the form of a likeness. "If she will only be quiet
for another ten minutes," he said, "the thing will really
be a picture." Unfortunately, the young lady was not quiet;
she had apparently had enough of her attitude and her view.
She turned away, facing Longueville again, and slowly came back,
as if to re-enter the church. To do so she had to pass
near him, and as she approached he instinctively got up,
holding his drawing in one hand. She looked at him again,
with that expression that he had mentally characterized
as "bold," a few minutes before--with dark, intelligent eyes.
Her hair was dark and dense; she was a strikingly handsome

"I am so sorry you moved," he said, confidently, in English.
"You were so--so beautiful."

She stopped, looking at him more directly than ever;
and she looked at his sketch, which he held out toward her.
At the sketch, however, she only glanced, whereas there
was observation in the eye that she bent upon Longueville.
He never knew whether she had blushed; he afterward thought
she might have been frightened. Nevertheless, it was not
exactly terror that appeared to dictate her answer to
Longueville's speech.

"I am much obliged to you. Don't you think you have looked at me enough?"

"By no means. I should like so much to finish my drawing."

"I am not a professional model," said the young lady.

"No. That 's my difficulty," Longueville answered, laughing.
"I can't propose to remunerate you."

The young lady seemed to think this joke in indifferent taste.
She turned away in silence; but something in her expression,
in his feeling at the time, in the situation, incited Longueville
to higher play. He felt a lively need of carrying his point.

"You see it will be pure kindness," he went on,--"a simple act of charity.
Five minutes will be enough. Treat me as an Italian beggar."

She had laid down his sketch and had stepped forward.
He stood there, obsequious, clasping his hands and smiling.

His interruptress stopped and looked at him again, as if she thought
him a very odd person; but she seemed amused. Now, at any rate,
she was not frightened. She seemed even disposed to provoke him
a little.

"I wish to go to my mother," she said.

"Where is your mother?" the young man asked.

"In the church, of course. I did n't come here alone!"

"Of course not; but you may be sure that your mother is very contented.
I have been in that little church. It is charming. She is just
resting there; she is probably tired. If you will kindly give me five
minutes more, she will come out to you."

"Five minutes?" the young girl asked.

"Five minutes will do. I shall be eternally grateful."
Longueville was amused at himself as he said this. He cared
infinitely less for his sketch than the words appeared to imply;
but, somehow, he cared greatly that this graceful stranger
should do what he had proposed.

The graceful stranger dropped an eye on the sketch again.

"Is your picture so good as that?" she asked.

"I have a great deal of talent," he answered, laughing. "You shall see
for yourself, when it is finished."

She turned slowly toward the terrace again.

"You certainly have a great deal of talent, to induce me to do what you ask."
And she walked to where she had stood before. Longueville made a movement
to go with her, as if to show her the attitude he meant; but, pointing with
decision to his easel, she said--

"You have only five minutes." He immediately went back to his work,
and she made a vague attempt to take up her position. "You must tell me
if this will do," she added, in a moment.

"It will do beautifully," Longueville answered, in a happy tone,
looking at her and plying his brush. "It is immensely good of you
to take so much trouble."

For a moment she made no rejoinder, but presently she said--

"Of course if I pose at all I wish to pose well."

"You pose admirably," said Longueville.

After this she said nothing, and for several minutes he painted
rapidly and in silence. He felt a certain excitement,
and the movement of his thoughts kept pace with that of his brush.
It was very true that she posed admirably; she was a fine creature
to paint. Her prettiness inspired him, and also her audacity,
as he was content to regard it for the moment. He wondered about her--
who she was, and what she was--perceiving that the so-called audacity
was not vulgar boldness, but the play of an original and probably
interesting character. It was obvious that she was a perfect lady,
but it was equally obvious that she was irregularly clever.
Longueville's little figure was a success--a charming success,
he thought, as he put on the last touches. While he was doing this,
his model's companion came into view. She came out of the church,
pausing a moment as she looked from her daughter to the young man
in the corner of the terrace; then she walked straight over to
the young girl. She was a delicate little gentlewoman, with a light,
quick step.

Longueville's five minutes were up; so, leaving his place,
he approached the two ladies, sketch in hand. The elder one,
who had passed her hand into her daughter's arm, looked up at
him with clear, surprised eyes; she was a charming old woman.
Her eyes were very pretty, and on either side of them,
above a pair of fine dark brows, was a band of silvery hair,
rather coquettishly arranged.

"It is my portrait," said her daughter, as Longueville drew near.
"This gentleman has been sketching me."

"Sketching you, dearest?" murmured her mother. "Was n't it rather sudden?"

"Very sudden--very abrupt!" exclaimed the young girl with a laugh.

"Considering all that, it 's very good," said Longueville,
offering his picture to the elder lady, who took it and began
to examine it. "I can't tell you how much I thank you,"
he said to his model.

"It 's very well for you to thank me now," she replied.
"You really had no right to begin."

"The temptation was so great."

"We should resist temptation. And you should have asked my leave."

"I was afraid you would refuse it; and you stood there,
just in my line of vision."

"You should have asked me to get out of it."

"I should have been very sorry. Besides, it would have been extremely rude."

The young girl looked at him a moment.

"Yes, I think it would. But what you have done is ruder."

"It is a hard case!" said Longueville. "What could I have done,
then, decently?"

"It 's a beautiful drawing," murmured the elder lady, handing the thing back
to Longueville. Her daughter, meanwhile, had not even glanced at it.

"You might have waited till I should go away," this argumentative
young person continued.

Longueville shook his head.

"I never lose opportunities!"

"You might have sketched me afterwards, from memory."

Longueville looked at her, smiling.

"Judge how much better my memory will be now!"

She also smiled a little, but instantly became serious.

"For myself, it 's an episode I shall try to forget.
I don't like the part I have played in it."

"May you never play a less becoming one!" cried Longueville. "I hope
that your mother, at least, will accept a memento of the occasion."
And he turned again with his sketch to her companion, who had been
listening to the girl's conversation with this enterprising stranger,
and looking from one to the other with an air of earnest confusion.
"Won't you do me the honor of keeping my sketch?" he said. "I think it really
looks like your daughter."

"Oh, thank you, thank you; I hardly dare," murmured the lady,
with a deprecating gesture.

"It will serve as a kind of amends for the liberty I have taken,"
Longueville added; and he began to remove the drawing from its
paper block.

"It makes it worse for you to give it to us," said the young girl.

"Oh, my dear, I am sure it 's lovely!" exclaimed her mother.
"It 's wonderfully like you."

"I think that also makes it worse!"

Longueville was at last nettled. The young lady's perversity was
perhaps not exactly malignant; but it was certainly ungracious.
She seemed to desire to present herself as a beautiful tormentress.

"How does it make it worse?" he asked, with a frown.

He believed she was clever, and she was certainly ready.
Now, however, she reflected a moment before answering.

"That you should give us your sketch," she said at last.

"It was to your mother I offered it," Longueville observed.

But this observation, the fruit of his irritation, appeared to have no effect
upon the young girl.

"Is n't it what painters call a study?" she went on.
"A study is of use to the painter himself. Your justification
would be that you should keep your sketch, and that it might be
of use to you."

"My daughter is a study, sir, you will say," said the elder lady
in a little, light, conciliating voice, and graciously accepting
the drawing again.

"I will admit," said Longueville, "that I am very inconsistent.
Set it down to my esteem, madam," he added, looking at the mother.

"That 's for you, mamma," said his model, disengaging her arm
from her mother's hand and turning away.

The mamma stood looking at the sketch with a smile which seemed to express
a tender desire to reconcile all accidents.

"It 's extremely beautiful," she murmured, "and if you insist
on my taking it--"

"I shall regard it as a great honor."

"Very well, then; with many thanks, I will keep it." She looked
at the young man a moment, while her daughter walked away.
Longueville thought her a delightful little person; she struck
him as a sort of transfigured Quakeress--a mystic with a
practical side. "I am sure you think she 's a strange girl,"
she said.

"She is extremely pretty."

"She is very clever," said the mother.

"She is wonderfully graceful."

"Ah, but she 's good!" cried the old lady.

"I am sure she comes honestly by that," said Longueville, expressively,
while his companion, returning his salutation with a certain scrupulous
grace of her own, hurried after her daughter.

Longueville remained there staring at the view but not especially seeing it.
He felt as if he had at once enjoyed and lost an opportunity.
After a while he tried to make a sketch of the old beggar-woman who sat
there in a sort of palsied immobility, like a rickety statue at a
church-door. But his attempt to reproduce her features was not gratifying,
and he suddenly laid down his brush. She was not pretty enough--
she had a bad profile.


Two months later Bernard Longueville was at Venice,
still under the impression that he was leaving Italy.
He was not a man who made plans and held to them.
He made them, indeed--few men made more--but he made them as a
basis for variation. He had gone to Venice to spend a fortnight,
and his fortnight had taken the form of eight enchanting weeks.
He had still a sort of conviction that he was carrying out
his plans; for it must be confessed that where his pleasure
was concerned he had considerable skill in accommodating his
theory to his practice. His enjoyment of Venice was extreme,
but he was roused from it by a summons he was indisposed to resist.
This consisted of a letter from an intimate friend who was
living in Germany--a friend whose name was Gordon Wright.
He had been spending the winter in Dresden, but his letter
bore the date of Baden-Baden. As it was not long, I may give
it entire.

"I wish very much that you would come to this place. I think
you have been here before, so that you know how pretty it is,
and how amusing. I shall probably be here the rest of the summer.
There are some people I know and whom I want you to know.
Be so good as to arrive. Then I will thank you properly for your
various Italian rhapsodies. I can't reply on the same scale--
I have n't the time. Do you know what I am doing?
I am making love. I find it a most absorbing occupation.
That is literally why I have not written to you before.
I have been making love ever since the last of May.
It takes an immense amount of time, and everything else has got
terribly behindhand. I don't mean to say that the experiment
itself has gone on very fast; but I am trying to push
it forward. I have n't yet had time to test its success;
but in this I want your help. You know we great physicists
never make an experiment without an 'assistant'--a humble
individual who burns his fingers and stains his clothes
in the cause of science, but whose interest in the problem
is only indirect. I want you to be my assistant, and I will
guarantee that your burns and stains shall not be dangerous.
She is an extremely interesting girl, and I really want you
to see her--I want to know what you think of her. She wants
to know you, too, for I have talked a good deal about you.
There you have it, if gratified vanity will help you on the way.
Seriously, this is a real request. I want your opinion,
your impression. I want to see how she will affect you.
I don't say I ask for your advice; that, of course,
you will not undertake to give. But I desire a definition,
a characterization; you know you toss off those things.
I don't see why I should n't tell you all this--I have always
told you everything. I have never pretended to know anything
about women, but I have always supposed that you knew everything.
You certainly have always had the tone of that sort
of omniscience. So come here as soon as possible and let
me see that you are not a humbug. She 's a very handsome

Longueville was so much amused with this appeal that he very
soon started for Germany. In the reader, Gordon Wright's
letter will, perhaps, excite surprise rather than hilarity;
but Longueville thought it highly characteristic of his friend.
What it especially pointed to was Gordon's want of imagination--
a deficiency which was a matter of common jocular allusion
between the two young men, each of whom kept a collection
of acknowledged oddities as a playground for the other's wit.
Bernard had often spoken of his comrade's want of imagination
as a bottomless pit, into which Gordon was perpetually inviting
him to lower himself. "My dear fellow," Bernard said, "you must
really excuse me; I cannot take these subterranean excursions.
I should lose my breath down there; I should never come up alive.
You know I have dropped things down--little jokes and metaphors,
little fantasies and paradoxes--and I have never heard them
touch bottom!" This was an epigram on the part of a young
man who had a lively play of fancy; but it was none the less
true that Gordon Wright had a firmly-treading, rather than
a winged, intellect. Every phrase in his letter seemed,
to Bernard, to march in stout-soled walking-boots, and nothing
could better express his attachment to the process of reasoning
things out than this proposal that his friend should come
and make a chemical analysis--a geometrical survey--of the lady
of his love. "That I shall have any difficulty in forming
an opinion, and any difficulty in expressing it when formed--
of this he has as little idea as that he shall have any difficulty
in accepting it when expressed." So Bernard reflected,
as he rolled in the train to Munich. "Gordon's mind," he went on,
"has no atmosphere; his intellectual process goes on in the void.
There are no currents and eddies to affect it, no high
winds nor hot suns, no changes of season and temperature.
His premises are neatly arranged, and his conclusions are perfectly

Yet for the man on whose character he so freely exercised his
wit Bernard Longueville had a strong affection. It is nothing
against the validity of a friendship that the parties to it have
not a mutual resemblance. There must be a basis of agreement,
but the structure reared upon it may contain a thousand disparities.
These two young men had formed an alliance of old, in college days,
and the bond between them had been strengthened by the simple fact
of its having survived the sentimental revolutions of early life.
Its strongest link was a sort of mutual respect. Their tastes,
their pursuits were different; but each of them had a high esteem for
the other's character. It may be said that they were easily pleased;
for it is certain that neither of them had performed any very
conspicuous action. They were highly civilized young Americans,
born to an easy fortune and a tranquil destiny, and unfamiliar
with the glitter of golden opportunities. If I did not shrink
from disparaging the constitution of their native land for their
own credit, I should say that it had never been very definitely
proposed to these young gentlemen to distinguish themselves.
On reaching manhood, they had each come into property sufficient
to make violent exertion superfluous. Gordon Wright, indeed,
had inherited a large estate. Their wants being tolerably modest,
they had not been tempted to strive for the glory of building up
commercial fortunes--the most obvious career open to young Americans.
They had, indeed, embraced no career at all, and if summoned to give
an account of themselves would, perhaps, have found it hard to tell
any very impressive story. Gordon Wright was much interested
in physical science, and had ideas of his own on what is called
the endowment of research. His ideas had taken a practical shape,
and he had distributed money very freely among the investigating classes,
after which he had gone to spend a couple of years in Germany,
supposing it to be the land of laboratories. Here we find him
at present, cultivating relations with several learned bodies and
promoting the study of various tough branches of human knowledge,
by paying the expenses of difficult experiments. The experiments,
it must be added, were often of his own making, and he must have the honor
of whatever brilliancy attaches, in the estimation of the world,
to such pursuits. It was not, indeed, a brilliancy that dazzled
Bernard Longueville, who, however, was not easily dazzled by anything.
It was because he regarded him in so plain and direct a fashion,
that Bernard had an affection for his friend--an affection to
which it would perhaps be difficult to assign a definite cause.
Personal sympathies are doubtless caused by something; but the causes
are remote, mysterious to our daily vision, like those of the particular
state of the weather. We content ourselves with remarking that it
is fine or that it rains, and the enjoyment of our likes and dislikes
is by no means apt to borrow its edge from the keenness of our analysis.
Longueville had a relish for fine quality--superior savour;
and he was sensible of this merit in the simple, candid, manly,
affectionate nature of his comrade, which seemed to him an excellent
thing of its kind. Gordon Wright had a tender heart and a strong will--
a combination which, when the understanding is not too limited,
is often the motive of admirable actions. There might sometimes be
a question whether Gordon's understanding were sufficiently unlimited,
but the impulses of a generous temper often play a useful part
in filling up the gaps of an incomplete imagination, and the general
impression that Wright produced was certainly that of intelligent
good-nature. The reasons for appreciating Bernard Longueville were much
more manifest. He pleased superficially, as well as fundamentally.
Nature had sent him into the world with an armful of good gifts.
He was very good-looking--tall, dark, agile, perfectly finished,
so good-looking that he might have been a fool and yet be forgiven.
As has already been intimated, however, he was far from being a fool.
He had a number of talents, which, during three or four years
that followed his leaving college, had received the discipline
of the study of the law. He had not made much of the law;
but he had made something of his talents. He was almost always spoken
of as "accomplished;" people asked why he did n't do something.
This question was never satisfactorily answered, the feeling
being that Longueville did more than many people in causing it
to be asked. Moreover, there was one thing he did constantly--
he enjoyed himself. This is manifestly not a career, and it
has been said at the outset that he was not attached to any
of the recognized professions. But without going into details,
he was a charming fellow--clever, urbane, free-handed, and with
that fortunate quality in his appearance which is known as


He had not specified, in writing to Gordon Wright,
the day on which he should arrive at Baden-Baden; it must
be confessed that he was not addicted to specifying days.
He came to his journey's end in the evening, and, on presenting
himself at the hotel from which his friend had dated his letter,
he learned that Gordon Wright had betaken himself after dinner,
according to the custom of Baden-Baden, to the grounds of
the Conversation-house. It was eight o'clock, and Longueville,
after removing the stains of travel, sat down to dine.
His first impulse had been to send for Gordon to come
and keep him company at his repast; but on second
thought he determined to make it as brief as possible.
Having brought it to a close, he took his way to the Kursaal.
The great German watering-place is one of the prettiest
nooks in Europe, and of a summer evening in the gaming days,
five-and-twenty years ago, it was one of the most brilliant scenes.
The lighted windows of the great temple of hazard (of as
chaste an architecture as if it had been devoted to a much
purer divinity) opened wide upon the gardens and groves;
the little river that issues from the bosky mountains of
the Black Forest flowed, with an air of brook-like innocence,
past the expensive hotels and lodging-houses; the orchestra,
in a high pavilion on the terrace of the Kursaal, played a discreet
accompaniment to the conversation of the ladies and gentlemen who,
scattered over the large expanse on a thousand little chairs,
preferred for the time the beauties of nature to the shuffle of coin
and the calculation of chance; while the faint summer stars,
twinkling above the vague black hills and woods, looked down at
the indifferent groups without venturing to drop their light
upon them.

Longueville, noting all this, went straight into the gaming-rooms;
he was curious to see whether his friend, being fond
of experiments, was trying combinations at roulette.
But he was not to be found in any of the gilded chambers,
among the crowd that pressed in silence about the tables;
so that Bernard presently came and began to wander
about the lamp-lit terrace, where innumerable groups,
seated and strolling, made the place a gigantic conversazione.
It seemed to him very agreeable and amusing, and he remarked
to himself that, for a man who was supposed not to take especially
the Epicurean view of life, Gordon Wright, in coming to Baden,
had certainly made himself comfortable. Longueville went
his way, glancing from one cluster of talkers to another;
and at last he saw a face which brought him to a stop.
He stood a moment looking at it; he knew he had seen it before.
He had an excellent memory for faces; but it was some time
before he was able to attach an identity to this one.
Where had he seen a little elderly lady with an expression
of timorous vigilance, and a band of hair as softly white
as a dove's wing? The answer to the question presently came--
Where but in a grass-grown corner of an old Italian town?
The lady was the mother of his inconsequent model, so that this
mysterious personage was probably herself not far off.
Before Longueville had time to verify this induction,
he found his eyes resting upon the broad back of a gentleman
seated close to the old lady, and who, turning away from her,
was talking to a young girl. It was nothing but the back
of this gentleman that he saw, but nevertheless,
with the instinct of true friendship, he recognized in this
featureless expanse the robust personality of Gordon Wright.
In a moment he had stepped forward and laid his hand upon Wright's

His friend looked round, and then sprang up with a joyous exclamation
and grasp of the hand.

"My dear fellow--my dear Bernard! What on earth--when did you arrive?"

While Bernard answered and explained a little, he glanced from
his friend's good, gratified face at the young girl with whom
Wright had been talking, and then at the lady on the other side,
who was giving him a bright little stare. He raised his hat
to her and to the young girl, and he became conscious, as regards
the latter, of a certain disappointment. She was very pretty;
she was looking at him; but she was not the heroine of the little
incident of the terrace at Siena.

"It 's just like Longueville, you know," Gordon Wright went on;
"he always comes at you from behind; he 's so awfully fond of surprises."
He was laughing; he was greatly pleased; he introduced Bernard
to the two ladies. "You must know Mrs. Vivian; you must know Miss
Blanche Evers."

Bernard took his place in the little circle; he wondered whether
he ought to venture upon a special recognition of Mrs. Vivian.
Then it seemed to him that he should leave the option of this step
with the lady, especially as he had detected recognition in her eye.
But Mrs. Vivian ventured upon nothing special; she contented herself
with soft generalities--with remarking that she always liked
to know when people would arrive; that, for herself, she never
enjoyed surprises.

"And yet I imagine you have had your share," said Longueville, with a smile.
He thought this might remind her of the moment when she came out of the little
church at Siena and found her daughter posturing to an unknown painter.

But Mrs. Vivian, turning her benignant head about, gave but
a superficial reply.

"Oh, I have had my share of everything, good and bad.
I don't complain of anything." And she gave a little
deprecating laugh.

Gordon Wright shook hands with Bernard again; he seemed
really very glad to see him. Longueville, remembering that
Gordon had written to him that he had been "making love,"
began to seek in his countenance for the ravages of passion.
For the moment, however, they were not apparent; the excellent,
honest fellow looked placid and contented. Gordon Wright had
a clear gray eye, short, straight, flaxen hair, and a healthy
diffusion of color. His features were thick and rather irregular;
but his countenance--in addition to the merit of its expression--
derived a certain grace from a powerful yellow moustache,
to which its wearer occasionally gave a martial twist.
Gordon Wright was not tall, but he was strong, and in his
whole person there was something well-planted and sturdy.
He almost always dressed in light-colored garments, and he wore
round his neck an eternal blue cravat. When he was agitated
he grew very red. While he questioned Longueville about his
journey and his health, his whereabouts and his intentions,
the latter, among his own replies, endeavored to read
in Wright's eyes some account of his present situation.
Was that pretty girl at his side the ambiguous object of
his adoration, and, in that case, what was the function of the
elder lady, and what had become of her argumentative daughter?
Perhaps this was another, a younger daughter, though, indeed,
she bore no resemblance to either of Longueville's friends.
Gordon Wright, in spite of Bernard's interrogative glances,
indulged in no optical confidences. He had too much to tell.
He would keep his story till they should be alone together.
It was impossible that they should adjourn just yet to
social solitude; the two ladies were under Gordon's protection.
Mrs. Vivian--Bernard felt a satisfaction in learning her name;
it was as if a curtain, half pulled up and stopped by a hitch,
had suddenly been raised altogether--Mrs. Vivian sat looking
up and down the terrace at the crowd of loungers and talkers
with an air of tender expectation. She was probably looking
for her elder daughter, and Longueville could not help wishing
also that this young lady would arrive. Meanwhile, he saw
that the young girl to whom Gordon had been devoting himself
was extremely pretty, and appeared eminently approachable.
Longueville had some talk with her, reflecting that if she
were the person concerning whom Gordon had written him,
it behooved him to appear to take an interest in her.
This view of the case was confirmed by Gordon Wright's
presently turning away to talk with Mrs. Vivian, so that his
friend might be at liberty to make acquaintance with their

Though she had not been with the others at Siena, it seemed to Longueville,
with regard to her, too, that this was not the first time he had seen her.
She was simply the American pretty girl, whom he had seen a thousand times.
It was a numerous sisterhood, pervaded by a strong family likeness.
This young lady had charming eyes (of the color of Gordon's cravats),
which looked everywhere at once and yet found time to linger in some places,
where Longueville's own eyes frequently met them. She had soft brown hair,
with a silky-golden thread in it, beautifully arranged and crowned by a smart
little hat that savoured of Paris. She had also a slender little figure,
neatly rounded, and delicate, narrow hands, prettily gloved. She moved
about a great deal in her place, twisted her little flexible body and tossed
her head, fingered her hair and examined the ornaments of her dress. She had
a great deal of conversation, Longueville speedily learned, and she expressed
herself with extreme frankness and decision. He asked her, to begin with,
if she had been long at Baden, but the impetus of this question was all she
required. Turning her charming, conscious, coquettish little face upon him,
she instantly began to chatter.

"I have been here about four weeks. I don't know whether you call that long.
It does n't seem long to me; I have had such a lovely time. I have met ever
so many people here I know--every day some one turns up. Now you have turned
up to-day."

"Ah, but you don't know me," said Longueville, laughing.

"Well, I have heard a great deal about you!" cried the young girl,
with a pretty little stare of contradiction. "I think you know
a great friend of mine, Miss Ella Maclane, of Baltimore. She 's
travelling in Europe now." Longueville's memory did not instantly
respond to this signal, but he expressed that rapturous assent which
the occasion demanded, and even risked the observation that the young
lady from Baltimore was very pretty. "She 's far too lovely,"
his companion went on. "I have often heard her speak of you.
I think you know her sister rather better than you know her.
She has not been out very long. She is just as interesting as she can be.
Her hair comes down to her feet. She 's travelling in Norway.
She has been everywhere you can think of, and she 's going to finish
off with Finland. You can't go any further than that, can you?
That 's one comfort; she will have to turn round and come back. I want
her dreadfully to come to Baden-Baden."

"I wish she would," said Longueville. "Is she travelling alone?"

"Oh, no. They 've got some Englishman. They say he 's
devoted to Ella. Every one seems to have an Englishman, now.
We 've got one here, Captain Lovelock, the Honourable
Augustus Lovelock. Well, they 're awfully handsome. Ella Maclane
is dying to come to Baden-Baden. I wish you 'd write to her.
Her father and mother have got some idea in their heads;
they think it 's improper--what do you call it?--immoral. I wish
you would write to her and tell her it is n't. I wonder if they
think that Mrs. Vivian would come to a place that 's immoral.
Mrs. Vivian says she would take her in a moment; she does n't
seem to care how many she has. I declare, she 's only too kind.
You know I 'm in Mrs. Vivian's care. My mother 's gone to Marienbad.
She would let me go with Mrs. Vivian anywhere, on account of
the influence--she thinks so much of Mrs. Vivian's influence.
I have always heard a great deal about it, have n't you?
I must say it 's lovely; it 's had a wonderful effect upon me.
I don't want to praise myself, but it has. You ask Mrs. Vivian
if I have n't been good. I have been just as good as I can be.
I have been so peaceful, I have just sat here this way.
Do you call this immoral? You 're not obliged to gamble
if you don't want to. Ella Maclane's father seems to think
you get drawn in. I 'm sure I have n't been drawn in.
I know what you 're going to say--you 're going to say I have been
drawn out. Well, I have, to-night. We just sit here so quietly--
there 's nothing to do but to talk. We make a little
party by ourselves--are you going to belong to our party?
Two of us are missing--Miss Vivian and Captain Lovelock.
Captain Lovelock has gone with her into the rooms to explain
the gambling--Miss Vivian always wants everything explained.
I am sure I understood it the first time I looked at the tables.
Have you ever seen Miss Vivian? She 's very much admired, she 's so
very unusual. Black hair 's so uncommon--I see you have got it too--
but I mean for young ladies. I am sure one sees everything here.
There 's a woman that comes to the tables--a Portuguese countess--
who has hair that is positively blue. I can't say I admire
it when it comes to that shade. Blue 's my favorite color,
but I prefer it in the eyes," continued Longueville's companion,
resting upon him her own two brilliant little specimens of the

He listened with that expression of clear amusement which is not always
an indication of high esteem, but which even pretty chatterers, who are
not the reverse of estimable, often prefer to masculine inattention;
and while he listened Bernard, according to his wont, made his reflections.
He said to himself that there were two kinds of pretty girls--
the acutely conscious and the finely unconscious. Mrs. Vivian's protege
was a member of the former category; she belonged to the genus coquette.
We all have our conception of the indispensable, and the indispensable,
to this young lady, was a spectator; almost any male biped would
serve the purpose. To her spectator she addressed, for the moment,
the whole volume of her being--addressed it in her glances, her attitudes,
her exclamations, in a hundred little experiments of tone and gesture
and position. And these rustling artifices were so innocent and obvious
that the directness of her desire to be well with her observer became
in itself a grace; it led Bernard afterward to say to himself that
the natural vocation and metier of little girls for whom existence
was but a shimmering surface, was to prattle and ruffle their plumage;
their view of life and its duties was as simple and superficial
as that of an Oriental bayadere. It surely could not be with regard
to this transparent little flirt that Gordon Wright desired advice;
you could literally see the daylight--or rather the Baden gaslight--
on the other side of her. She sat there for a minute, turning her little
empty head to and fro, and catching Bernard's eye every time she moved;
she had for the instant the air of having exhausted all topics.
Just then a young lady, with a gentleman at her side, drew near to
the little group, and Longueville, perceiving her, instantly got up from
his chair.

"There 's a beauty of the unconscious class!" he said to himself.
He knew her face very well; he had spent half an hour in copying it.

"Here comes Miss Vivian!" said Gordon Wright, also getting up,
as if to make room for the daughter near the mother.

She stopped in front of them, smiling slightly, and then she
rested her eyes upon Longueville. Their gaze at first was full
and direct, but it expressed nothing more than civil curiosity.
This was immediately followed, however, by the light of recognition--
recognition embarrassed, and signalling itself by a blush.

Miss Vivian's companion was a powerful, handsome fellow, with a remarkable
auburn beard, who struck the observer immediately as being uncommonly
well dressed. He carried his hands in the pockets of a little jacket,
the button-hole of which was adorned with a blooming rose.
He approached Blanche Evers, smiling and dandling his body a little,
and making her two or three jocular bows.

"Well, I hope you have lost every penny you put on the table!"
said the young girl, by way of response to his obeisances.

He began to laugh and repeat them.

"I don't care what I lose, so long--so long--"

"So long as what, pray?"

"So long as you let me sit down by you!" And he dropped, very gallantly,
into a chair on the other side of her.

"I wish you would lose all your property!" she replied,
glancing at Bernard.

"It would be a very small stake," said Captain Lovelock.
"Would you really like to see me reduced to misery?"

While this graceful dialogue rapidly established itself, Miss Vivian
removed her eyes from Longueville's face and turned toward her mother.
But Gordon Wright checked this movement by laying his hand on Longueville's
shoulder and proceeding to introduce his friend.

"This is the accomplished creature, Mr. Bernard Longueville,
of whom you have heard me speak. One of his accomplishments,
as you see, is to drop down from the moon."

"No, I don't drop from the moon," said Bernard, laughing.
"I drop from--Siena!" He offered his hand to Miss Vivian,
who for an appreciable instant hesitated to extend her own.
Then she returned his salutation, without any response to his
allusion to Siena.

She declined to take a seat, and said she was tired and preferred
to go home. With this suggestion her mother immediately complied,
and the two ladies appealed to the indulgence of little Miss Evers,
who was obliged to renounce the society of Captain Lovelock.
She enjoyed this luxury, however, on the way to Mrs. Vivian's lodgings,
toward which they all slowly strolled, in the sociable Baden fashion.
Longueville might naturally have found himself next Miss Vivian,
but he received an impression that she avoided him. She walked
in front, and Gordon Wright strolled beside her, though Longueville
noticed that they appeared to exchange but few words. He himself
offered his arm to Mrs. Vivian, who paced along with a little
lightly-wavering step, making observations upon the beauties of Baden
and the respective merits of the hotels.


Which of them is it?" asked Longueville of his friend, after they
had bidden good-night to the three ladies and to Captain Lovelock,
who went off to begin, as he said, the evening. They stood,
when they had turned away from the door of Mrs. Vivian's lodgings,
in the little, rough-paved German street.

"Which of them is what?" Gordon asked, staring at his companion.

"Oh, come," said Longueville, "you are not going to begin to play at modesty
at this hour! Did n't you write to me that you had been making violent love?"

"Violent? No."

"The more shame to you! Has your love-making been feeble?"

His friend looked at him a moment rather soberly.

"I suppose you thought it a queer document--that letter I wrote you."

"I thought it characteristic," said Longueville smiling.

"Is n't that the same thing?"

"Not in the least. I have never thought you a man of oddities."
Gordon stood there looking at him with a serious eye, half appealing,
half questioning; but at these last words he glanced away.
Even a very modest man may wince a little at hearing himself
denied the distinction of a few variations from the common type.
Longueville made this reflection, and it struck him, also, that his
companion was in a graver mood than he had expected; though why,
after all, should he have been in a state of exhilaration?
"Your letter was a very natural, interesting one,"
Bernard added.

"Well, you see," said Gordon, facing his companion again,
"I have been a good deal preoccupied."

"Obviously, my dear fellow!"

"I want very much to marry."

"It 's a capital idea," said Longueville.

"I think almost as well of it," his friend declared, "as if I
had invented it. It has struck me for the first time."

These words were uttered with a mild simplicity which provoked Longueville
to violent laughter.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, "you have, after all, your little oddities."

Singularly enough, however, Gordon Wright failed to appear flattered
by this concession.

"I did n't send for you to laugh at me," he said.

"Ah, but I have n't travelled three hundred miles to cry!
Seriously, solemnly, then, it is one of these young ladies
that has put marriage into your head?"

"Not at all. I had it in my head."

"Having a desire to marry, you proceeded to fall in love."

"I am not in love!" said Gordon Wright, with some energy.

"Ah, then, my dear fellow, why did you send for me?"

Wright looked at him an instant in silence.

"Because I thought you were a good fellow, as well as a clever one."

"A good fellow!" repeated Longueville. "I don't understand your
confounded scientific nomenclature. But excuse me; I won't laugh.
I am not a clever fellow; but I am a good one." He paused a moment,
and then laid his hand on his companion's shoulder. "My dear Gordon,
it 's no use; you are in love."

"Well, I don't want to be," said Wright.

"Heavens, what a horrible sentiment!"

"I want to marry with my eyes open. I want to know my wife.
You don't know people when you are in love with them.
Your impressions are colored."

"They are supposed to be, slightly. And you object to color?"

"Well, as I say, I want to know the woman I marry, as I should know
any one else. I want to see her as clearly."

"Depend upon it, you have too great an appetite for knowledge;
you set too high an esteem upon the dry light of science."

"Ah!" said Gordon promptly; "of course I want to be fond of her."

Bernard, in spite of his protest, began to laugh again.

"My dear Gordon, you are better than your theories.
Your passionate heart contradicts your frigid intellect.
I repeat it--you are in love."

"Please don't repeat it again," said Wright.

Bernard took his arm, and they walked along.

"What shall I call it, then? You are engaged in making studies
for matrimony."

"I don't in the least object to your calling it that.
My studies are of extreme interest."

"And one of those young ladies is the fair volume that contains
the precious lesson," said Longueville. "Or perhaps your text-book
is in two volumes?"

"No; there is one of them I am not studying at all. I never could
do two things at once."

"That proves you are in love. One can't be in love with two women at once,
but one may perfectly have two of them--or as many as you please--
up for a competitive examination. However, as I asked you before,
which of these young ladies is it that you have selected?"

Gordon Wright stopped abruptly, eying his friend.

"Which should you say?"

"Ah, that 's not a fair question," Bernard urged. "It would be invidious for
me to name one rather than the other, and if I were to mention the wrong one,
I should feel as if I had been guilty of a rudeness towards the other.
Don't you see?"

Gordon saw, perhaps, but he held to his idea of making his companion
commit himself.

"Never mind the rudeness. I will do the same by you some day, to make it up.
Which of them should you think me likely to have taken a fancy to?
On general grounds, now, from what you know of me?" He proposed this problem
with an animated eye.

"You forget," his friend said, "that though I know, thank heaven,
a good deal of you, I know very little of either of those girls.
I have had too little evidence."

"Yes, but you are a man who notices. That 's why I wanted you to come.

"I spoke only to Miss Evers."

"Yes, I know you have never spoken to Miss Vivian." Gordon Wright
stood looking at Bernard and urging his point as he pronounced
these words. Bernard felt peculiarly conscious of his gaze.
The words represented an illusion, and Longueville asked
himself quickly whether it were not his duty to dispel it.
The answer came more slowly than the question, but still
it came, in the shape of a negative. The illusion was
but a trifling one, and it was not for him, after all,
to let his friend know that he had already met Miss Vivian.
It was for the young girl herself, and since she had not done so--
although she had the opportunity--Longueville said to himself
that he was bound in honor not to speak. These reflections
were very soon made, but in the midst of them our young man,
thanks to a great agility of mind, found time to observe,
tacitly, that it was odd, just there, to see his "honor"
thrusting in its nose. Miss Vivian, in her own good time,
would doubtless mention to Gordon the little incident of Siena.
It was Bernard's fancy, for a moment, that he already knew it,
and that the remark he had just uttered had an ironical accent;
but this impression was completely dissipated by the tone in
which he added--"All the same, you noticed her."

"Oh, yes; she is very noticeable."

"Well, then," said Gordon, "you will see. I should like you to make it out.
Of course, if I am really giving my attention to one to the exclusion of
the other, it will be easy to discover."

Longueville was half amused, half irritated by his friend's own
relish of his little puzzle. " 'The exclusion of the other'
has an awkward sound," he answered, as they walked on. "Am I
to notice that you are very rude to one of the young ladies?"

"Oh dear, no. Do you think there is a danger of that?"

"Well," said Longueville, "I have already guessed."

Gordon Wright remonstrated. "Don't guess yet--wait a few days.
I won't tell you now."

"Let us see if he does n't tell me," said Bernard, privately.
And he meditated a moment. "When I presented myself, you were
sitting very close to Miss Evers and talking very earnestly.
Your head was bent toward her--it was very lover-like. Decidedly,
Miss Evers is the object!"

For a single instant Gordon Wright hesitated, and then--"I hope I
have n't seemed rude to Miss Vivian!" he exclaimed.

Bernard broke into a light laugh. "My dear Gordon, you are very much
in love!" he remarked, as they arrived at their hotel.


Life at baden-baden proved a very sociable affair, and Bernard Longueville
perceived that he should not lack opportunity for the exercise
of those gifts of intelligence to which Gordon Wright had appealed.
The two friends took long walks through the woods and over the mountains,
and they mingled with human life in the crowded precincts of
the Conversation-house. They engaged in a ramble on the morning
after Bernard's arrival, and wandered far away, over hill and dale.
The Baden forests are superb, and the composition of the landscape
is most effective. There is always a bosky dell in the foreground,
and a purple crag embellished with a ruined tower at a proper angle.
A little timber-and-plaster village peeps out from a tangle
of plum-trees, and a way-side tavern, in comfortable recurrence,
solicits concessions to the national custom of frequent refreshment.
Gordon Wright, who was a dogged pedestrian, always enjoyed doing
his ten miles, and Longueville, who was an incorrigible stroller,
felt a keen relish for the picturesqueness of the country.
But it was not, on this occasion, of the charms of the landscape
or the pleasures of locomotion that they chiefly discoursed.
Their talk took a more closely personal turn. It was a year
since they had met, and there were many questions to ask and answer,
many arrears of gossip to make up. As they stretched themselves on
the grass on a sun-warmed hill-side, beneath a great German oak whose
arms were quiet in the blue summer air, there was a lively exchange
of impressions, opinions, speculations, anecdotes. Gordon Wright
was surely an excellent friend. He took an interest in you.
He asked no idle questions and made no vague professions;
but he entered into your situation, he examined it in detail,
and what he learned he never forgot. Months afterwards, he asked
you about things which you yourself had forgotten. He was not a man
of whom it would be generally said that he had the gift of sympathy;
but he gave his attention to a friend's circumstances with a conscientious
fixedness which was at least very far removed from indifference.
Bernard had the gift of sympathy--or at least he was supposed to have it;
but even he, familiar as he must therefore have been with the practice
of this charming virtue, was at times so struck with his friend's
fine faculty of taking other people's affairs seriously that he
constantly exclaimed to himself, "The excellent fellow--the admirable

Bernard had two or three questions to ask about the three persons
who appeared to have formed for some time his companion's
principal society, but he was indisposed to press them.
He felt that he should see for himself, and at a prospect
of entertainment of this kind, his fancy always kindled.
Gordon was, moreover, at first rather shy of confidences,
though after they had lain on the grass ten minutes there was a good
deal said.

"Now what do you think of her face?" Gordon asked, after staring
a while at the sky through the oak-boughs.

"Of course, in future," said Longueville, "whenever you make use
of the personal pronoun feminine, I am to understand that Miss
Vivian is indicated."

"Her name is Angela," said Gordon; "but of course I can scarcely
call her that."

"It 's a beautiful name," Longueville rejoined; "but I may say,
in answer to your question, that I am not struck with the fact
that her face corresponds to it."

"You don't think her face beautiful, then?"

"I don't think it angelic. But how can I tell? I have only had a glimpse
of her."

"Wait till she looks at you and speaks--wait till she smiles,"
said Gordon.

"I don't think I saw her smile--at least, not at me, directly.
I hope she will!" Longueville went on. "But who is she--
this beautiful girl with the beautiful name?"

"She is her mother's daughter," said Gordon Wright. "I don't really
know a great deal more about her than that."

"And who is her mother?"

"A delightful little woman, devoted to Miss Vivian.
She is a widow, and Angela is her only child. They have lived
a great deal in Europe; they have but a modest income.
Over here, Mrs. Vivian says, they can get a lot of things
for their money that they can't get at home. So they stay,
you see. When they are at home they live in New York.
They know some of my people there. When they are in Europe
they live about in different places. They are fond of Italy.
They are extremely nice; it 's impossible to be nicer.
They are very fond of books, fond of music, and art, and all that.
They always read in the morning. They only come out rather late in
the day."

"I see they are very superior people," said Bernard.
"And little Miss Evers--what does she do in the morning?
I know what she does in the evening!"

"I don't know what her regular habits are. I have n't paid much
attention to her. She is very pretty."

"Wunderschon!" said Bernard. "But you were certainly talking
to her last evening."

"Of course I talk to her sometimes. She is totally different
from Angela Vivian--not nearly so cultivated; but she seems
very charming."

"A little silly, eh?" Bernard suggested.

"She certainly is not so wise as Miss Vivian."

"That would be too much to ask, eh? But the Vivians, as kind as they
are wise, have taken her under their protection."

"Yes," said Gordon, "they are to keep her another month or two.
Her mother has gone to Marienbad, which I believe is
thought a dull place for a young girl; so that, as they
were coming here, they offered to bring her with them.
Mrs. Evers is an old friend of Mrs. Vivian, who, on leaving Italy,
had come up to Dresden to be with her. They spent a month
there together; Mrs. Evers had been there since the winter.
I think Mrs. Vivian really came to Baden-Baden--she would
have preferred a less expensive place--to bring Blanche Evers.
Her mother wanted her so much to come."

"And was it for her sake that Captain Lovelock came, too?"
Bernard asked.

Gordon Wright stared a moment.

"I 'm sure I don't know!"

"Of course you can't be interested in that," said Bernard smiling.
"Who is Captain Lovelock?"

"He is an Englishman. I believe he is what 's called
aristocratically connected--the younger brother of a lord,
or something of that sort."

"Is he a clever man?"

"I have n't talked with him much, but I doubt it. He is rather rakish;
he plays a great deal."

"But is that considered here a proof of rakishness?" asked Bernard.
"Have n't you played a little yourself?"

Gordon hesitated a moment.

"Yes, I have played a little. I wanted to try some experiments.
I had made some arithmetical calculations of probabilities, which I
wished to test."

Bernard gave a long laugh.

"I am delighted with the reasons you give for amusing yourself!
Arithmetical calculations!"

"I assure you they are the real reasons!" said Gordon, blushing a little.

"That 's just the beauty of it. You were not afraid of being 'drawn in,'
as little Miss Evers says?"

"I am never drawn in, whatever the thing may be. I go in, or I stay out;
but I am not drawn," said Gordon Wright.

"You were not drawn into coming with Mrs. Vivian and her daughter
from Dresden to this place?"

"I did n't come with them; I came a week later."

"My dear fellow," said Bernard, "that distinction is unworthy
of your habitual candor."

"Well, I was not fascinated; I was not overmastered.
I wanted to come to Baden."

"I have no doubt you did. Had you become very intimate with your friends
in Dresden?"

"I had only seen them three times."

"After which you followed them to this place? Ah, don't say you
were not fascinated!" cried Bernard, laughing and springing to his feet.


That evening, in the gardens of the Kursaal, he renewed acquaintance with
Angela Vivian. Her mother came, as usual, to sit and listen to the music,
accompanied by Blanche Evers, who was in turn attended by Captain Lovelock.
This little party found privacy in the crowd; they seated themselves
in a quiet corner in an angle of one of the barriers of the terrace,
while the movement of the brilliant Baden world went on around them.
Gordon Wright engaged in conversation with Mrs. Vivian, while Bernard
enjoyed an interview with her daughter. This young lady continued to
ignore the fact of their previous meeting, and our hero said to himself
that all he wished was to know what she preferred--he would rigidly
conform to it. He conformed to her present programme; he had ventured
to pronounce the word Siena the evening before, but he was careful
not to pronounce it again. She had her reasons for her own reserve;
he wondered what they were, and it gave him a certain pleasure to wonder.
He enjoyed the consciousness of their having a secret together, and it
became a kind of entertaining suspense to see how long she would continue
to keep it. For himself, he was in no hurry to let the daylight in;
the little incident at Siena had been, in itself, a charming affair;
but Miss Vivian's present attitude gave it a sort of mystic consecration.
He thought she carried it off very well--the theory that she had
not seen him before; last evening she had been slightly confused,
but now she was as self-possessed as if the line she had taken were
a matter of conscience. Why should it be a matter of conscience?
Was she in love with Gordon Wright, and did she wish, in consequence,
to forget--and wish him not to suspect--that she had ever received
an expression of admiration from another man? This was not likely;
it was not likely, at least, that Miss Vivian wished to pass for a prodigy
of innocence; for if to be admired is to pay a tribute to corruption,
it was perfectly obvious that so handsome a girl must have tasted
of the tree of knowledge. As for her being in love with Gordon Wright,
that of course was another affair, and Bernard did not pretend, as yet,
to have an opinion on this point, beyond hoping very much that she might

He was not wrong in the impression of her good looks that
he had carried away from the short interview at Siena.
She had a charmingly chiselled face, with a free, pure outline,
a clear, fair complexion, and the eyes and hair of a dusky beauty.
Her features had a firmness which suggested tranquillity,
and yet her expression was light and quick, a combination--
or a contradiction--which gave an original stamp to her beauty.
Bernard remembered that he had thought it a trifle "bold";
but he now perceived that this had been but a vulgar misreading
of her dark, direct, observant eye. The eye was a charming one;
Bernard discovered in it, little by little, all sorts of things;
and Miss Vivian was, for the present, simply a handsome,
intelligent, smiling girl. He gave her an opportunity to make
an allusion to Siena; he said to her that his friend told
him that she and her mother had been spending the winter
in Italy.

"Oh yes," said Angela Vivian; "we were in the far south;
we were five months at Sorrento."

"And nowhere else?"

"We spent a few days in Rome. We usually prefer the quiet places;
that is my mother's taste."

"It was not your mother's taste, then," said Bernard, "that brought you
to Baden?"

She looked at him a moment.

"You mean that Baden is not quiet?"

Longueville glanced about at the moving, murmuring crowd,
at the lighted windows of the Conversation-house, at the great
orchestra perched up in its pagoda.

"This is not my idea of absolute tranquillity."

"Nor mine, either," said Miss Vivian. "I am not fond
of absolute tranquillity."

"How do you arrange it, then, with your mother?"

Again she looked at him a moment, with her clever, slightly mocking smile.

"As you see. By making her come where I wish."

"You have a strong will," said Bernard. "I see that."

"No. I have simply a weak mother. But I make sacrifices too, sometimes."

"What do you call sacrifices?"

"Well, spending the winter at Sorrento."

Bernard began to laugh, and then he told her she must have had a very happy
life--"to call a winter at Sorrento a sacrifice."

"It depends upon what one gives up," said Miss Vivian.

"What did you give up?"

She touched him with her mocking smile again.

"That is not a very civil question, asked in that way."

"You mean that I seem to doubt your abnegation?"

"You seem to insinuate that I had nothing to renounce. I gave up--
I gave up--" and she looked about her, considering a little--"I gave
up society."

"I am glad you remember what it was," said Bernard.
"If I have seemed uncivil, let me make it up. When a woman speaks
of giving up society, what she means is giving up admiration.
You can never have given up that--you can never have escaped from it.
You must have found it even at Sorrento."

"It may have been there, but I never found it. It was very respectful--
it never expressed itself."

"That is the deepest kind," said Bernard.

"I prefer the shallower varieties," the young girl answered.

"Well," said Bernard, "you must remember that although shallow admiration
expresses itself, all the admiration that expresses itself is not shallow."

Miss Vivian hesitated a moment.

"Some of it is impertinent," she said, looking straight at him,
rather gravely.

Bernard hesitated about as long.

"When it is impertinent it is shallow. That comes to the same thing."

The young girl frowned a little.

"I am not sure that I understand--I am rather stupid.
But you see how right I am in my taste for such places as this.
I have to come here to hear such ingenious remarks."

"You should add that my coming, as well, has something to do with it."

"Everything!" said Miss Vivian.

"Everything? Does no one else make ingenious remarks?
Does n't my friend Wright?"

"Mr. Wright says excellent things, but I should not exactly call
them ingenious remarks."

"It is not what Wright says; it 's what he does. That 's the charm!"
said Bernard.

His companion was silent for a moment. "That 's not usually a charm;
good conduct is not thought pleasing."

"It surely is not thought the reverse!" Bernard exclaimed.

"It does n't rank--in the opinion of most people--among the things
that make men agreeable."

"It depends upon what you call agreeable."

"Exactly so," said Miss Vivian. "It all depends on that."

"But the agreeable," Bernard went on--"it is n't after all, fortunately,
such a subtle idea! The world certainly is agreed to think that virtue
is a beautiful thing."

Miss Vivian dropped her eyes a moment, and then, looking up,

"Is it a charm?" she asked.

"For me there is no charm without it," Bernard declared.

"I am afraid that for me there is," said the young girl.

Bernard was puzzled--he who was not often puzzled.
His companion struck him as altogether too clever to be
likely to indulge in a silly affectation of cynicism.
And yet, without this, how could one account for her sneering
at virtue?

"You talk as if you had sounded the depths of vice!" he said, laughing.
"What do you know about other than virtuous charms?"

"I know, of course, nothing about vice; but I have known virtue
when it was very tiresome."

"Ah, then it was a poor affair. It was poor virtue.
The best virtue is never tiresome."

Miss Vivian looked at him a little, with her fine discriminating eye.

"What a dreadful thing to have to think any virtue poor!"

This was a touching reflection, and it might have gone further
had not the conversation been interrupted by Mrs. Vivian's
appealing to her daughter to aid a defective recollection
of a story about a Spanish family they had met at Biarritz,
with which she had undertaken to entertain Gordon Wright.
After this, the little circle was joined by a party of American
friends who were spending a week at Baden, and the conversation
became general.


But on the following evening, Bernard again found himself
seated in friendly colloquy with this interesting girl,
while Gordon Wright discoursed with her mother on one side,
and little Blanche Evers chattered to the admiring eyes of Captain
Lovelock on the other.

"You and your mother are very kind to that little girl," our hero said;
"you must be a great advantage to her."

Angela Vivian directed her eyes to her neighbors, and let them rest
a while on the young girl's little fidgeting figure and her fresh,
coquettish face. For some moments she said nothing, and to Longueville,
turning over several things in his mind, and watching her, it seemed
that her glance was one of disfavor. He divined, he scarcely knew how,
that her esteem for her pretty companion was small.

"I don't know that I am very kind," said Miss Vivian.
"I have done nothing in particular for her."

"Mr. Wright tells me you came to this place mainly on her account."

"I came for myself," said Miss Vivian. "The consideration you speak
of perhaps had weight with my mother."

"You are not an easy person to say appreciative things to,"
Bernard rejoined. "One is tempted to say them; but you don't
take them."

The young girl colored as she listened to this observation.

"I don't think you know," she murmured, looking away. Then, "Set it
down to modesty," she added.

"That, of course, is what I have done. To what else could one possibly
attribute an indifference to compliments?"

"There is something else. One might be proud."

"There you are again!" Bernard exclaimed. "You won't even let me
praise your modesty."

"I would rather you should rebuke my pride."

"That is so humble a speech that it leaves no room for rebuke."

For a moment Miss Vivian said nothing.

"Men are singularly base," she declared presently, with a little smile.
"They don't care in the least to say things that might help a person.
They only care to say things that may seem effective and agreeable."

"I see: you think that to say agreeable things is a great misdemeanor.

"It comes from their vanity," Miss Vivian went on, as if she
had not heard him. "They wish to appear agreeable and get
credit for cleverness and tendresse, no matter how silly it
would be for another person to believe them."

Bernard was a good deal amused, and a little nettled.

"Women, then," he said, "have rather a fondness for producing
a bad impression--they like to appear disagreeable?"

His companion bent her eyes upon her fan for a moment as she
opened and closed it.

"They are capable of resigning themselves to it--for a purpose."

Bernard was moved to extreme merriment.

"For what purpose?"

"I don't know that I mean for a purpose," said Miss Vivian;
"but for a necessity."

"Ah, what an odious necessity!"

"Necessities usually are odious. But women meet them.
Men evade them and shirk them."

"I contest your proposition. Women are themselves necessities;
but they are not odious ones!" And Bernard added, in a moment,
"One could n't evade them, if they were!"

"I object to being called a necessity," said Angela Vivian.
"It diminishes one's merit."

"Ah, but it enhances the charm of life!"

"For men, doubtless!"

"The charm of life is very great," Bernard went on, looking up at
the dusky hills and the summer stars, seen through a sort of mist
of music and talk, and of powdery light projected from the softly
lurid windows of the gaming-rooms. "The charm of life is extreme.
I am unacquainted with odious necessities. I object to nothing!"

Angela Vivian looked about her as he had done--looked perhaps a moment
longer at the summer stars; and if she had not already proved herself
a young lady of a contradictory turn, it might have been supposed she
was just then tacitly admitting the charm of life to be considerable.

"Do you suppose Miss Evers often resigns herself to being disagreeable--
for a purpose?" asked Longueville, who had glanced at Captain Lovelock's
companion again.

"She can't be disagreeable; she is too gentle, too soft."

"Do you mean too silly?"

"I don't know that I call her silly. She is not very wise;
but she has no pretensions--absolutely none--so that one is not
struck with anything incongruous."

"What a terrible description! I suppose one ought to have a few pretensions."

"You see one comes off more easily without them," said Miss Vivian.

"Do you call that coming off easily?"

She looked at him a moment gravely.

"I am very fond of Blanche," she said.

"Captain Lovelock is rather fond of her," Bernard went on.

The girl assented.

"He is completely fascinated--he is very much in love with her."

"And do they mean to make an international match?"

"I hope not; my mother and I are greatly troubled."

"Is n't he a good fellow?"

"He is a good fellow; but he is a mere trifler. He has n't a penny,
I believe, and he has very expensive habits. He gambles a great deal.
We don't know what to do."

"You should send for the young lady's mother."

"We have written to her pressingly. She answers that Blanche can take
care of herself, and that she must stay at Marienbad to finish her cure.
She has just begun a new one."

"Ah well," said Bernard, "doubtless Blanche can take care of herself."

For a moment his companion said nothing; then she exclaimed--

"It 's what a girl ought to be able to do!"

"I am sure you are!" said Bernard.

She met his eyes, and she was going to make some rejoinder; but before she
had time to speak, her mother's little, clear, conciliatory voice interposed.
Mrs. Vivian appealed to her daughter, as she had done the night before.

"Dear Angela, what was the name of the gentleman who delivered
that delightful course of lectures that we heard in Geneva, on--
what was the title?--'The Redeeming Features of the Pagan Morality.'

Angela flushed a little.

"I have quite forgotten his name, mamma," she said, without looking round.

"Come and sit by me, my dear, and we will talk them over.
I wish Mr. Wright to hear about them," Mrs. Vivian went on.

"Do you wish to convert him to paganism?" Bernard asked.

"The lectures were very dull; they had no redeeming features,"
said Angela, getting up, but turning away from her mother.
She stood looking at Bernard Longueville; he saw she was
annoyed at her mother's interference. "Every now and then,"
she said, "I take a turn through the gaming-rooms. The last time,
Captain Lovelock went with me. Will you come to-night?"

Bernard assented with expressive alacrity; he was charmed
with her not wishing to break off her conversation with him.

"Ah, we 'll all go!" said Mrs. Vivian, who had been listening,
and she invited the others to accompany her to the Kursaal.

They left their places, but Angela went first, with Bernard
Longueville by her side; and the idea of her having publicly
braved her mother, as it were, for the sake of his society,
lent for the moment an almost ecstatic energy to his tread.
If he had been tempted to presume upon his triumph, however,
he would have found a check in the fact that the young girl
herself tasted very soberly of the sweets of defiance.
She was silent and grave; she had a manner which took the edge
from the wantonness of filial independence. Yet, for all this,
Bernard was pleased with his position; and, as he walked
with her through the lighted and crowded rooms, where they
soon detached themselves from their companions, he felt that
peculiar satisfaction which best expresses itself in silence.
Angela looked a while at the rows of still, attentive faces,
fixed upon the luminous green circle, across which little
heaps of louis d'or were being pushed to and fro, and she
continued to say nothing. Then at last she exclaimed simply,
"Come away!" They turned away and passed into another chamber,
in which there was no gambling. It was an immense apartment,
apparently a ball-room; but at present it was quite unoccupied.
There were green velvet benches all around it, and a great
polished floor stretched away, shining in the light
of chandeliers adorned with innumerable glass drops.
Miss Vivian stood a moment on the threshold; then she passed in,
and they stopped in the middle of the place, facing each other,
and with their figures reflected as if they had been
standing on a sheet of ice. There was no one in the room;
they were entirely alone.

"Why don't you recognize me?" Bernard murmured quickly.

"Recognize you?"

"Why do you seem to forget our meeting at Siena?"

She might have answered if she had answered immediately;
but she hesitated, and while she did so something happened at
the other end of the room which caused her to shift her glance.
A green velvet porti; agere suspended in one of the door-ways--
not that through which our friends had passed--was lifted,
and Gordon Wright stood there, holding it up, and looking at them.
His companions were behind him.

"Ah, here they are!" cried Gordon, in his loud, clear voice.

This appeared to strike Angela Vivian as an interruption,
and Bernard saw it very much in the same light.


He forbore to ask her his question again--she might tell him at
her convenience. But the days passed by, and she never told him--
she had her own reasons. Bernard talked with her very often;
conversation formed indeed the chief entertainment of the quiet
little circle of which he was a member. They sat on the
terrace and talked in the mingled starlight and lamplight,
and they strolled in the deep green forests and wound along
the side of the gentle Baden hills, under the influence
of colloquial tendencies. The Black Forest is a country
of almost unbroken shade, and in the still days of midsummer
the whole place was covered with a motionless canopy of verdure.
Our friends were not extravagant or audacious people, and they
looked at Baden life very much from the outside--they sat aloof
from the brightly lighted drama of professional revelry.
Among themselves as well, however, a little drama went forward
in which each member of the company had a part to play.
Bernard Longueville had been surprised at first at what
he would have called Miss Vivian's approachableness--
at the frequency with which he encountered opportunities
for sitting near her and entering into conversation.
He had expected that Gordon Wright would deem himself
to have established an anticipatory claim upon the young
lady's attention, and that, in pursuance of this claim,
he would occupy a recognized place at her side. Gordon was,
after all, wooing her; it was very natural he should seek
her society. In fact, he was never very far off; but Bernard,
for three or four days, had the anomalous consciousness of being
still nearer. Presently, however, he perceived that he owed
this privilege simply to his friend's desire that he should
become acquainted with Miss Vivian--should receive a vivid
impression of a person in whom Gordon was so deeply interested.
After this result might have been supposed to be attained,
Gordon Wright stepped back into his usual place and showed her
those small civilities which were the only homage that the quiet
conditions of their life rendered possible--walked with her,
talked with her, brought her a book to read, a chair to sit upon,
a couple of flowers to place in the bosom of her gown, treated her,
in a word, with a sober but by no means inexpressive gallantry.
He had not been making violent love, as he told Longueville,
and these demonstrations were certainly not violent.
Bernard said to himself that if he were not in the secret,
a spectator would scarcely make the discovery that Gordon
cherished an even very safely tended flame. Angela Vivian,
on her side, was not strikingly responsive. There was nothing
in her deportment to indicate that she was in love with her
systematic suitor. She was perfectly gracious and civil.
She smiled in his face when he shook hands with her;
she looked at him and listened when he talked; she let
him stroll beside her in the Lichtenthal Alley; she read,
or appeared to read, the books he lent her, and she decorated
herself with the flowers he offered. She seemed neither
bored nor embarrassed, neither irritated nor oppressed.
But it was Bernard's belief that she took no more pleasure
in his attentions than a pretty girl must always take in any
recognition of her charms. "If she 's not indifferent,"
he said to himself, "she is, at any rate, impartial--profoundly

It was not till the end of a week that Gordon Wright told him exactly
how his business stood with Miss Vivian and what he had reason
to expect and hope--a week during which their relations had been
of the happiest and most comfortable cast, and during which Bernard,
rejoicing in their long walks and talks, in the charming weather,
in the beauty and entertainment of the place, and in other things besides,
had not ceased to congratulate himself on coming to Baden.
Bernard, after the first day, had asked his friend no questions.
He had a great respect for opportunity, coming either to others
or to himself, and he left Gordon to turn his lantern as fitfully
as might be upon the subject which was tacitly open between them,
but of which as yet only the mere edges had emerged into light.
Gordon, on his side, seemed content for the moment with having his clever
friend under his hand; he reserved him for final appeal or for some
other mysterious use.

"You can't tell me you don't know her now," he said, one evening
as the two young men strolled along the Lichtenthal Alley--"now
that you have had a whole week's observation of her."

"What is a week's observation of a singularly clever and complicated woman?"
Bernard asked.

"Ah, your week has been of some use. You have found out she is complicated!"
Gordon rejoined.

"My dear Gordon," Longueville exclaimed, "I don't see what it
signifies to you that I should find Miss Vivian out!
When a man 's in love, what need he care what other people think
of the loved object?"

"It would certainly be a pity to care too much. But there is some excuse
for him in the loved object being, as you say, complicated."

"Nonsense! That 's no excuse. The loved object is always complicated."

Gordon walked on in silence a moment.

"Well, then, I don't care a button what you think!"

"Bravo! That 's the way a man should talk," cried Longueville.

Gordon indulged in another fit of meditation, and then he said--

"Now that leaves you at liberty to say what you please."

"Ah, my dear fellow, you are ridiculous!" said Bernard.

"That 's precisely what I want you to say. You always think
me too reasonable."

"Well, I go back to my first assertion. I don't know Miss Vivian--
I mean I don't know her to have opinions about her. I don't suppose
you wish me to string you off a dozen mere banalites--'She 's a
charming girl--evidently a superior person--has a great deal of style.'

"Oh no," said Gordon; "I know all that. But, at any rate,"
he added, "you like her, eh?"

"I do more," said Longueville. "I admire her."

"Is that doing more?" asked Gordon, reflectively.

"Well, the greater, whichever it is, includes the less."

"You won't commit yourself," said Gordon. "My dear Bernard,"
he added, "I thought you knew such an immense deal about women!"

Gordon Wright was of so kindly and candid a nature that it
is hardly conceivable that this remark should have been framed
to make Bernard commit himself by putting him on his mettle.
Such a view would imply indeed on Gordon's part a greater
familiarity with the uses of irony than he had ever possessed,
as well as a livelier conviction of the irritable nature
of his friend's vanity. In fact, however, it may be confided
to the reader that Bernard was pricked in a tender place,
though the resentment of vanity was not visible in his answer.

"You were quite wrong," he simply said. "I am as ignorant
of women as a monk in his cloister."

"You try to prove too much. You don't think her sympathetic!"
And as regards this last remark, Gordon Wright must be credited
with a certain ironical impulse.

Bernard stopped impatiently.

"I ask you again, what does it matter to you what I think of her?"

"It matters in this sense--that she has refused me."

"Refused you? Then it is all over, and nothing matters."

"No, it is n't over," said Gordon, with a positive head-shake. "Don't
you see it is n't over?"

Bernard smiled, laid his hand on his friend's shoulder and patted it a little.

"Your attitude might almost pass for that of resignation."

"I 'm not resigned!" said Gordon Wright.

"Of course not. But when were you refused?"

Gordon stood a minute with his eyes fixed on the ground.
Then, at last looking up,

"Three weeks ago--a fortnight before you came. But let us walk along,"
he said, "and I will tell you all about it."

"I proposed to her three weeks ago," said Gordon, as they walked along.
"My heart was very much set upon it. I was very hard hit--I was
deeply smitten. She had been very kind to me--she had been charming--
I thought she liked me. Then I thought her mother was pleased,
and would have liked it. Mrs. Vivian, in fact, told me as much;
for of course I spoke to her first. Well, Angela does like me--
or at least she did--and I see no reason to suppose she has changed.
Only she did n't like me enough. She said the friendliest and
pleasantest things to me, but she thought that she knew me too little,
and that I knew her even less. She made a great point of that--
that I had no right, as yet, to trust her. I told her that
if she would trust me, I was perfectly willing to trust her;

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