meant, and couldn't imagine that we were inspired by this rascally
little villa to sigh longingly over the wicked past."

"Excuse me," interrupted Florida, with a touch of trouble in her proud
manner, "I'm not sighing over it, for one, and I don't want it back.
I'm glad that I'm American and that there is no past for me. I can't
understand how you and Don Ippolito can speak so tolerantly of what no
one can respect," she added, in almost an aggrieved tone.

If Miss Vervain wanted to turn the talk upon Don Ippolito, Ferris by no
means did; he had had enough of that subject yesterday; he got as
lightly away from it as he could.

"Oh, Don Ippolito's a pagan, I tell you; and I'm a painter, and the
rococo is my weakness. I wish I could paint it, but I can't; I'm a
hundred years too late. I couldn't even paint myself in the act of
sentimentalizing it."

While he talked, he had been making a few lines in a small pocket
sketch-book, with a furtive glance or two at Florida. When they
returned to the boat, he busied himself again with the book, and
presently he handed it to Mrs. Vervain.

"Why, it's Florida!" cried the lady. "How very nicely you do sketch,
Mr. Ferris."

"Thanks, Mrs. Vervain; you're always flattering me."

"No, but seriously. I _wish_ that I had paid more attention to my
drawing when I was a girl. And now, Florida--she won't touch a pencil.