“He is the same to us all,” said Strong.  “Some people think he is ashamed of his origin.  He was picked out of the gutters of Cincinnati by some philanthropist and sent abroad for an education.  The fact is that he cares no more about his origin than you do for being a Sioux Indian, but he had the misfortune to marry badly in Europe, and hates to talk of it.”

“Then he has a wife already, when he is breaking my young heart?” exclaimed Catherine.

“I would like to calm your fears, my poor child,” said Strong; “but the truth is that no one knows what has become of his wife.  She may be alive, and she may be dead.  Do you want me to find out?”

“I am dying to know,” said Catherine; “but I will make him tell me all about it one of these days.”

“Never!” replied Strong.  “He lives only in his art since the collapse of his marriage.  He eats and drinks paint.”

“Does he really paint so very well?” asked Catherine thoughtfully.  “Is he a great genius?”

“Young woman, we are all of us great geniuses.  We never say so, because we are as modest as we are great, but just look into my book on fossil batrachians.”

“I don’t feel the least interest in you or your batrachiums; but I adore Mr. Wharton.”

“What is the good of your adoring Wharton?” asked the professor.  “Short’s very good as far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin, not Short.”

“I shall hate you if you always make fun of me.  What do you mean by your Codlins and Shorts?”

“Did you never read Dickens?” cried Strong.

“I never read a novel in my life, if that is what you are talking about,” answered Catherine.

“Ho!  Cousin Esther!  The Sioux don’t read Dickens.  You should join the tribe.”

“I always told you that sensible people never read,” said Esther, hard at work on her painting.  “Do you suppose St. Cecilia ever read Dickens or would have liked him if she had?”

“Perhaps not,” said Strong.  “I take very little stock in saints, and she strikes me as a little of a humbug, your Cecilia; but I would like to know what the effect of the ‘Old Curiosity Shop’ would be on a full-blooded Indian squaw.  Catherine, will you try to read it if I bring you a copy here?”

“May I?” asked Catherine.  “You know I was taught to believe that novels are sinful.”

Strong stared at her a moment with surprise that any new trait in her could surprise him, and then went on solemnly:  “Angel, you are many points too good for this wicked city.  If you remain here unperverted, you will injure our trade.  I must see to it that your moral tone is lowered.  Will you read a novel of this person named Dickens if Mr. Hazard will permit you to do so in his church?”