became enthusiastic at a bound. She lacked equilibrium, like all
women who are spinsters at the age of fifty. She seemed to be
pickled in vinegary innocence, though her heart still retained
something of youth and of girlish effervescence. She loved both
nature and animals with a fervent ardor, a love like old wine,
mellow through age, with a sensual love that she had never
bestowed on men.

"One thing is certain: a mare roaming in a meadow with a foal at
its side, a bird's nest full of young ones, squeaking, with their
open mouths and enormous heads, made her quiver with the most
violent emotion.

"Poor solitary beings! Sad wanderers from table d'hote to table
d'hote, poor beings, ridiculous and lamentable, I love you ever
since I became acquainted with Miss Harriet!

"I soon discovered that she had something she would like to tell
me, but dared not, and I was amused at her timidity. When I
started out in the morning with my box on my back, she would
accompany me as far as the end of the village, silent, but
evidently struggling inwardly to find words with which to begin a
conversation. Then she would leave me abruptly, and, with jaunty
step, walk away quickly.

"One day, however, she plucked up courage:

" 'I would like to see how you paint pictures? Will you show me?
I have been very curious.'