Long Barton was no longer the dullest place in the world. It was the
centre of the universe. See her diary, an entry following a gap where
a page had been torn out:

"Mr. V. is very kind. He is teaching me to sketch. He says I shall do
very well when I have forgotten what I learned at school. It is so
nice of him to be so straightforward. I hate flattery. He has begun my
portrait. It is beautiful, but he says it is exactly like me. Of
course it is his painting that makes it beautiful, and not anything to
do with me. That is not flattery. I do not think he could say anything
unless he really thought it. He is that sort of man, I think. I am so
glad he is so good. If he were a different sort of person perhaps it
would not be quite nice for me to go and meet him without any one
knowing. But there is nothing _of that sort_. He was quite different
the first day. But I think then he was off his guard and could not
help himself. I don't know quite what I meant by that. But, anyway, I
am sure he is as good as gold, and that is such a comfort. I revere
him. I believe he is really noble and unselfish, and so few men are,
alas!"

The noble and unselfish Vernon meanwhile was quite happy. His picture
was going splendidly, and every morning he woke to the knowledge that
his image filled all the thoughts of a good little girl with gray dark
charming eyes and a face that reminded one of a pretty kitten. Her
drawing was not half bad either. He was spared the mortifying labour
of trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. In one of his arts
as in the other he decided that she had talent. And it was pleasant
that to him should have fallen the task of teacher in both
departments. Those who hunt the fox will tell you that Reynard enjoys,