I wish you'd talk to her, Mr. Ferris."

"Oh, people who are pictures needn't trouble themselves to be
painters," said Ferris, with a little burlesque.

Mrs. Vervain began to look at the sketch through her tubed hand; the
painter made a grimace. "But you've made her too proud, Mr. Ferris. She
doesn't look like that."

"Yes she does--to those unworthy of her kindness. I have taken Miss
Vervain in the act of scorning the rococo, and its humble admirer, me,
with it."

"I'm sure _I_ don't know what you mean, Mr. Ferris; but I can't
think that this proud look is habitual with Florida; and I've heard
people say--very good judges--that an artist oughtn't to perpetuate a
temporary expression. Something like that."

"It can't be helped now, Mrs. Vervain: the sketch is irretrievably
immortal. I'm sorry, but it's too late."

"Oh, stuff! As if you couldn't turn up the corners of the mouth a
little. Or something."

"And give her the appearance of laughing at me? Never!"

"Don Ippolito," said Mrs. Vervain, turning to the priest, who had been
listening intently to all this trivial talk, "what do you think of this
sketch?"