think it a hard bargain, for he only lets it play about half an hour a
day. But he says it's very ingeniously mended. He didn't believe it
could be done. It _is_ pretty.

"It is, indeed," said the painter, with a singular desire, going
through him like a pang, likewise to do something for Miss Vervain.
"Did you go to Don Ippolito's house the other day, to see his traps?"

"Yes; we were very much interested. I was sorry that I knew so little
about inventions. Do you think there are many practical ideas amongst
his things? I hope there are--he seemed so proud and pleased to show
them. Shouldn't you think he had some real inventive talent?"

"Yes, I think he has; but I know as little about the matter as you do."
He sat down beside her, and picking up a twig from the gravel, pulled
the bark off in silence. Then, "Miss Vervain," he said, knitting his
brows, as he always did when he had something on his conscience and
meant to ease it at any cost, "I'm the dog that fetches a bone and
carries a bone; I talked Don Ippolito over with you, the other day, and
now I've been talking you over with him. But I've the grace to say that
I'm ashamed of myself."

"Why need you be ashamed?" asked Florida. "You said no harm of him. Did
you of us?"

"Not exactly; but I don't think it was quite my business to discuss you
at all. I think you can't let people alone too much. For my part, if I
try to characterize my friends, I fail to do them perfect justice, of
course; and yet the imperfect result remains representative of them in
my mind; it limits them and fixes them; and I can't get them back again