Chapter IX. Unexpectedly Thrown Together.




"I suppose you are satisfied by this time, Stanton," began Van
Berg, as they drove away, "that I was very safe in offering you
that picture on the conditions named, and that you have not the
ghost of a chance of obtaining it."

"Nonsense," replied Stanton. "The picture is practically won already.
I admit that Miss Burton is an exception to all her species; and,
now that I have seen her, I prove how little I am under the influence
of prejudice by acknowledging the fact, and by giving her credit
for her courage and agreeable manners. But how absurd to imagine
that this plain little stranger can ever be to me more than she is
to-day--a summer acquaintance at a summer resort! She will soon
drop from our memories and leave no more trace than these rustling
leaves overhead after they have fulfilled their brief purpose."

"Here's a symptom already," cried Van Berg. "My matter-of-fact
friend is already in the subtle current, and unconsciously drops
into sentiment, and expresses himself in poetic trope. I foresee
that the 'rustling leaves' will end in a rustling wedding-robe and
gorgeous apparel; for when you cage the 'brown thrush' you will
have the bad taste to insist on a change of plumage."

"I begin to understand you at last," retorted Stanton. "You have
been smitten yourself, and this is your strategy to conceal the fact.