“Let me try;” and with eager eyes he sat down before his easel again.  “Now see if I succeed a little,” he added, after a moment.

His whole nature appeared kindled and animated by hope.  He worked rapidly and boldly.  His drawing had been good before, and, as time passed, nature’s sweet, true face began to smile upon him from his canvas.  Marian grew almost as absorbed as himself, learning by actual vision how quick, light strokes can reproduce and preserve on a few square inches the transitory beauty of the hour and the season.

At times she would stimulate his effort by half-spoken sentences of satisfaction, and at last he turned and looked up suddenly at her flushed, interested face.

“You are the muse,” he exclaimed, impetuously, “who, by looking over my shoulder, can make an artist of me.”

She instinctively stepped farther away, saying, decisively, “Be careful then to regard me as a muse.”

She had replied to his ardent glance and tone, even more than to his words.  There was not a trace of sentiment in her clear, direct gaze.  The quiet dignity and reserve of her manner sobered him instantly.  Her presence, her words, the unexpected success in the new departure which she had suggested, had excited him deeply; yet a moment’s thought made it clear that there had been nothing on her part to warrant the hope of more than friendly interest.  This interest might easily be lost by a few rash words, while there was slight reason that he should ever hope for anything more.  Then also came the consciousness of his straitened circumstances and the absurdity of incurring obligations which he might never be able to meet.  He had assured himself a thousand times that art should be his mistress, yet here he was on the eve of acting like a fool by making love to one who never disguised her expensive tastes.  He was not an artist of the olden school,—­all romance and passion,—­and the modishly dressed, reserved maiden before him did not, in the remotest degree, suggest a languishing heroine in days of yore, certain to love against sense and reason.  The wild, sylvan shade, the June atmosphere, the fragrance of the eglantine, even the presence of art, in whose potent traditions mood is the highest law, could not dispel the nineteenth century or make this independent, clear-headed American girl forget for a moment what was sensible and right.  She stood there alone under the shadow of the chestnuts, and by a glance defined her rights, her position towards her companion, and made him respect them.  Nor was he headlong, passionate, absurd.  He was a part of his age, and was familiar with New York society.  The primal instincts of his nature had obtained ascendency for a mordent.  Ardent words to the beautiful girl who looked over his shoulder and inspired his touch seemed as natural as breath.  She had made herself for the moment a part of his enthusiasm.  But what could be the sequel of ardent words, even if successful, but prosaic explanations and the facing of the inexorable problem of supporting two on an income that scarcely sufficed for the Bohemian life of one?