only
let it pass because you say it so well."

"Yes; you're always so good! You wouldn't contradict me even when you
turned me out of your class."

"Did I turn you out of my class?"

"Not just in so many words, but when I said I couldn't do anything in
art, you didn't insist that it was because I wouldn't, and of course
then I had to go. I've never forgiven you, Mr. Westover, never! Do keep
on talking very excitedly; there's a man coming up to us that I don't
want to think I see him, or he'll stop. There! He's veered off! Where
were you, Mr. Westover?"

"Ah, Miss Bessie," said the painter; delighted at her drama, "there
isn't anything you couldn't do if you would."

"You mean parlor entertainments; impersonations; impressions; that sort
of thing? I have thought of it. But it would be too easy. I want to try
something difficult."

"For instance."

"Well, being very, very good. I want something that would really tax my
powers. I should like to be an example. I tried it the other night just
before I went to sleep, and it was fine. I became an example to others.
But when I woke up--I went on in the old way. I want something hard,
don't you know; but I want it to be easy!"

She laughed, and Westover said: "I am glad you're not serious. No one
ought to be an example to others. To be exemplary is as dangerous as to
be complimentary.

"It certainly isn't so agreeable to the object," said the girl. "But
it's fine for the subject as long as it lasts. How metaphysical we're
getting! The objective and the subjective. It's quite what I should
expect of talk at a Boston dance if I were a New-Yorker. Have you seen
anything of my brother, within the last hour or so, Mr. Westover?"

"Yes; I just left him in the supper-room. Shall I go get him for you?"
When he had said this, with the notion of rescuing him from Jeff,
Westover was sorry, for he doubted if Alan Lynde were any longer in the
state to be brought away from the supper-room, and he was glad to have
Bessie say:

"No, no. He'll look us up in the course of the evening--or the morning."
A young fellow came to claim her for a dance, and Westover had not the
face to leave Miss Lynde, all the less because she told him he must not
think of staying. He stayed till the dance was over, and Bessie came
back to him.

"What time is it, Mr. Westover? I see my aunt beginning to nod on her
perch."

Westover looked at his watch. "It's ten minutes past two."

"How early!" sig