“It is not because I think I am beautiful,” said Gertrude, looking all round.  “I don’t think I am beautiful, at all.”  She spoke with a sort of conscious deliberateness; and it seemed very strange to Charlotte to hear her discussing this question so publicly.  “It is because I think it would be amusing to sit and be painted.  I have always thought that.”

“I am sorry you have not had better things to think about, my daughter,” said Mr. Wentworth.

“You are very beautiful, cousin Gertrude,” Felix declared.

“That ’s a compliment,” said Gertrude.  “I put all the compliments I receive into a little money-jug that has a slit in the side.  I shake them up and down, and they rattle.  There are not many yet—­only two or three.”

“No, it ’s not a compliment,” Felix rejoined.  “See; I am careful not to give it the form of a compliment.  I did n’t think you were beautiful at first.  But you have come to seem so little by little.”

“Take care, now, your jug does n’t burst!” exclaimed Lizzie.

“I think sitting for one’s portrait is only one of the various forms of idleness,” said Mr. Wentworth.  “Their name is legion.”

“My dear sir,” cried Felix, “you can’t be said to be idle when you are making a man work so!”

“One might be painted while one is asleep,” suggested Mr. Brand, as a contribution to the discussion.

“Ah, do paint me while I am asleep,” said Gertrude to Felix, smiling.  And she closed her eyes a little.  It had by this time become a matter of almost exciting anxiety to Charlotte what Gertrude would say or would do next.

She began to sit for her portrait on the following day—­in the open air, on the north side of the piazza.  “I wish you would tell me what you think of us—­how we seem to you,” she said to Felix, as he sat before his easel.

“You seem to me the best people in the world,” said Felix.

“You say that,” Gertrude resumed, “because it saves you the trouble of saying anything else.”

The young man glanced at her over the top of his canvas.  “What else should I say?  It would certainly be a great deal of trouble to say anything different.”

“Well,” said Gertrude, “you have seen people before that you have liked, have you not?”

“Indeed I have, thank Heaven!”

“And they have been very different from us,” Gertrude went on.

“That only proves,” said Felix, “that there are a thousand different ways of being good company.”

“Do you think us good company?” asked Gertrude.

“Company for a king!”

Gertrude was silent a moment; and then, “There must be a thousand different ways of being dreary,” she said; “and sometimes I think we make use of them all.”

Felix stood up quickly, holding up his hand.  “If you could only keep that look on your face for half an hour—­while I catch it!” he said.  “It is uncommonly handsome.”