f Art with the biggest of A's,
and they compared Dutch painting with Italian; they spoke of Rembrandt
and his life.

'Rembrandt had passion,' said Ferdinand, bitterly, 'and therefore he was
unhappy. It is only the sexless, passionless creature, the block of ice,
that can be happy in this world.'

She blushed and did not answer.

The afternoon Valentia spent in her room, pretending to write letters,
and she wondered whether Ferdinand was wishing her downstairs.

At dinner they sought refuge in abstractions. They talked of dykes and
windmills and cigars, the history of Holland and its constitution, the
constitution of the United States and the edifying spectacle of the
politics of that blessed country. They talked of political economy and
pessimism and cattle rearing, the state of agriculture in England, the
foreign policy of the day, Anarchism, the President of the French
Republic. They would have talked of bi-metallism if they could. People
hearing them would have thought them very learned and extraordinarily
staid.

At last they separated, and as she undressed Valentia told herself that
Ferdinand had kept his promise. Everything was just as it had been
before, and the only change was that he used her Christian name. And she
rather liked him to call her Valentia.

But next day Ferdinand did not seem able to command himself. When
Valentia addressed him, he answered in monosyllables, with eyes averted;
but when she had her back turned, she felt that he was looking at her.
After breakfast she went away painting haystacks, and was late for
luncheon.

She apologised.

'It is of no consequence,' he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. And
those were the only words he spoke to her during the remainder of the
day. Once, when he was looking at her surreptitiously, and she suddenly
turned round, their eyes met, and for a moment he gazed straight at her,
then walked away. She wished he would not look so sad. As she was going
to bed, she held out her hand to him to say good-night, and she
added,--

'I don't want to make you unhappy, Mr White. I'm very sorry.'

'It's not your fault,' he said. 'You can't help it, if you're a stock
and a stone.'

He went away without taking the proffered hand. Valentia cried that
night.

In the morning she found a note outside her door:--

'_Pardon me if I was rude, but I was not master of myself. I am
going to Volendam; I hate Monnickendam_.'

VI

Ferdinand arrived