tell you," he pursued; "but you may
believe me when I say this,--that I am little better than a good-natured
feather-head."

"A feather-head?" she repeated.

"I am a species of Bohemian."

"A Bohemian?" Gertrude had never heard this term before, save as a
geographical denomination; and she quite failed to understand the
figurative meaning which her companion appeared to attach to it. But it
gave her pleasure.

Felix had pushed back his chair and risen to his feet; he slowly came
toward her, smiling. "I am a sort of adventurer," he said, looking down
at her.

She got up, meeting his smile. "An adventurer?" she repeated. "I should
like to hear your adventures."

For an instant she believed that he was going to take her hand; but he
dropped his own hands suddenly into the pockets of his painting-jacket.
"There is no reason why you should n't," he said. "I have been an
adventurer, but my adventures have been very innocent. They have all
been happy ones; I don't think there are any I should n't tell. They
were very pleasant and very pretty; I should like to go over them in
memory. Sit down again, and I will begin," he added in a moment, with
his naturally persuasive smile.

Gertrude sat down again on that day, and she sat down on several other
days. Felix, while he plied his brush, told her a great many stories,
and she listened with charmed avidity. Her eyes rested upon his lips;
she was very serious; sometimes, from her air of wondering gravity, he
thought she was displeased. But Felix never believed for more than a
single moment in any displeasure of his own producing. This would have
been fatuity if the optimism it expressed had not been much more a hope
than a prejudice. It is beside the matter to say that he had a good
conscience; for the best conscience is a sort of self-reproach, and this
young man's brilliantly healthy nature spent itself in objective good
intentions which were ignorant of any test save exactness in hitting
their mark. He told Gertrude how he had walked over France and Italy
with a painter's knapsack on his back, paying his way often by knocking
off a flattering portrait of his host or hostess. He told her how he
had played the violin in a little band of musicians--not of high
celebrity--who traveled through foreign lands giving provincial
concerts. He told her also how he had been a momentary ornament of a
troupe of strolling actors, engaged in the arduous task of interpreting
Shakespeare