"It is too sudden," I objected. "Plants that blossom on shipboard-"

"This plant was rooted in American earth, and you know it, Penelope.
If it chanced to blossom on the ship, it was because it had already
budded on the shore; it has borne transplanting to a foreign soil,
and it grows in beauty and strength every day: so no slurs, please,
concerning ocean-steamer hothouses."

"I cannot say yes, yet I dare not say no; it is too soon. I must go
off into the country quite by myself and think it over."

"But," urged Mr. Beresford, "you cannot think over a matter of this
kind by yourself. You'll continually be needing to refer to me for
data, don't you know, on which to base your conclusions. How can
you tell whether you're in love with me or not if- (No, I am not
shouting at all; it's your guilty conscience; I'm whispering.) How
can you tell whether you're in love with me, I repeat, unless you
keep me under constant examination?"

"That seems sensible, though I dare say it is full of sophistry; but
I have made up my mind to go into the country and paint while
Salemina and Francesca are on the Continent. One cannot think in
this whirl. A winter season in Washington followed by a summer
season in London,--one wants a breath of fresh air before beginning
another winter season somewhere else. Be a little patient, please.
I long for the calm that steals over me when I am absorbed in my
brushes and my oils."

"Work is all very well," said Mr. Beresford with determination, "but
I know your habits. You have a little way of taking your brush, and