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Hastings, the gentleman who painted that pretty little face
you make so much of; this is my daughter, Mr. Hastings.” These introductions
over, Guy perforce turned his steps & recrossed the bridge with the family
party. He talked to Mrs. Graham, while the girl walked behind with her father;
but his quick artist’s eye had taken in a glance the impression that she was
thin, but well-built, & exquisitely blonde, with large blue eyes, almost
infantine in their innocent sweetness. She spoke very little, & seemed
retiring & unaffected; & he noticed that her voice was low &
musical. As for Mrs. Graham, she may best be described as being one of a large
class. She was comely & simple-mannered, intensely proud of her husband
& her daughter, & satisfied with life altogether; one of those dear,
commonplace souls, without wit or style, but with an abundance of motherliness
that might cover a multitude of fashionable defects. Guy was universally polite
to women, but Mrs. Graham’s bland twaddle about hotels, scenery & railway
carriages (the British matron’s usual fund of conversation when taking a
relaxation from housekeeping on the continent) was not very absorbing, &
his eyes wandered continually towards her daughter—Madeline, her father had
called her. He wondered why the name suited her soft, blonde beauty so well; he
wondered if she were as refined as she looked; & indulged in so many of
those lazy speculations which a young man is apt to lavish on a beautiful girl,
that Mrs. Graham’s account of their journey over the Cornice was almost
entirely lost to his inattentive ears. Finally, as they drew near home,
Madeline stopped to fill her hands with flowers, & he picked up her
sunshade, falling back by her side to admire her nosegay. This young gentleman—who
would have called himself “a man of the world” & thought he knew woman-kind
pretty well, from the actress to the Duchess—had never seen before the
phenomenon of an unsophisticated English beauty among the better classes. “I
think that ladies’ hands were made for gathering flowers,” he observed. “It is
the prettiest work they can do.” Madeline blushed; “It is the pleasantest work,
I think,” she said, in her clear, shy tones, bending her tall head over her
field-blossoms. Guy thought of “The Gardener’s Daughter,” & wondered
whether her golden hair was as pale & soft as Madeline Graham’s. “But you
can paint them,” the girl added. “How I envy you!” “If you are so fond of
flowers, you should learn to paint them yourself, Miss Graham,” said Guy. “Ah—if I could. I don’t think I have any talent.” “You must
let me find that out,” he returned, smiling. “I should like to teach you.”
Madeline blushed again; indeed, every passing emotion made her colour change
& waver exquisitely. Guy liked to watch the wildrose flush deepen &
fade on the pure cheek beside him; it was a study in itself to make an artist
happy. “You know,” he went on, “all talents are not developped at once, but lie
dormant until some magic touch awakens them. Your love for flowers may help you
to find out that you are an artist.” “I am very fond of pictures,” said
Madeline, simply. “I love the Madonna heads with their soft, sweet eyes &
blue hoods. But then, you know, I am no judge of art—Papa is.” At another time,
Guy would have smiled at this daughterly illusion; now it only struck him as a
very rare & pretty thing. “One does not need to be a judge of art to love
it,” he said. “The discrimination comes later; but the love is inborn.” She
lifted her wide blue eyes shyly to his face. “I suppose you have both,” she
said, gravely. “Very little of either, I am afraid,” said Guy, smiling. “I am
little more than an amateur, you know.” Just then, Mr. Graham, who had gone
forward with his wife, called Madeline. “Come, come, my dear. It is getting
damp & we must be off to our hotel. Our paths divide, here, eh? Mr.
Hastings. Come &
you make so much of; this is my daughter, Mr. Hastings.” These introductions
over, Guy perforce turned his steps & recrossed the bridge with the family
party. He talked to Mrs. Graham, while the girl walked behind with her father;
but his quick artist’s eye had taken in a glance the impression that she was
thin, but well-built, & exquisitely blonde, with large blue eyes, almost
infantine in their innocent sweetness. She spoke very little, & seemed
retiring & unaffected; & he noticed that her voice was low &
musical. As for Mrs. Graham, she may best be described as being one of a large
class. She was comely & simple-mannered, intensely proud of her husband
& her daughter, & satisfied with life altogether; one of those dear,
commonplace souls, without wit or style, but with an abundance of motherliness
that might cover a multitude of fashionable defects. Guy was universally polite
to women, but Mrs. Graham’s bland twaddle about hotels, scenery & railway
carriages (the British matron’s usual fund of conversation when taking a
relaxation from housekeeping on the continent) was not very absorbing, &
his eyes wandered continually towards her daughter—Madeline, her father had
called her. He wondered why the name suited her soft, blonde beauty so well; he
wondered if she were as refined as she looked; & indulged in so many of
those lazy speculations which a young man is apt to lavish on a beautiful girl,
that Mrs. Graham’s account of their journey over the Cornice was almost
entirely lost to his inattentive ears. Finally, as they drew near home,
Madeline stopped to fill her hands with flowers, & he picked up her
sunshade, falling back by her side to admire her nosegay. This young gentleman—who
would have called himself “a man of the world” & thought he knew woman-kind
pretty well, from the actress to the Duchess—had never seen before the
phenomenon of an unsophisticated English beauty among the better classes. “I
think that ladies’ hands were made for gathering flowers,” he observed. “It is
the prettiest work they can do.” Madeline blushed; “It is the pleasantest work,
I think,” she said, in her clear, shy tones, bending her tall head over her
field-blossoms. Guy thought of “The Gardener’s Daughter,” & wondered
whether her golden hair was as pale & soft as Madeline Graham’s. “But you
can paint them,” the girl added. “How I envy you!” “If you are so fond of
flowers, you should learn to paint them yourself, Miss Graham,” said Guy. “Ah—if I could. I don’t think I have any talent.” “You must
let me find that out,” he returned, smiling. “I should like to teach you.”
Madeline blushed again; indeed, every passing emotion made her colour change
& waver exquisitely. Guy liked to watch the wildrose flush deepen &
fade on the pure cheek beside him; it was a study in itself to make an artist
happy. “You know,” he went on, “all talents are not developped at once, but lie
dormant until some magic touch awakens them. Your love for flowers may help you
to find out that you are an artist.” “I am very fond of pictures,” said
Madeline, simply. “I love the Madonna heads with their soft, sweet eyes &
blue hoods. But then, you know, I am no judge of art—Papa is.” At another time,
Guy would have smiled at this daughterly illusion; now it only struck him as a
very rare & pretty thing. “One does not need to be a judge of art to love
it,” he said. “The discrimination comes later; but the love is inborn.” She
lifted her wide blue eyes shyly to his face. “I suppose you have both,” she
said, gravely. “Very little of either, I am afraid,” said Guy, smiling. “I am
little more than an amateur, you know.” Just then, Mr. Graham, who had gone
forward with his wife, called Madeline. “Come, come, my dear. It is getting
damp & we must be off to our hotel. Our paths divide, here, eh? Mr.
Hastings. Come &
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