Longueville settled himself on the empty bench, and, arranging his
little portable apparatus, began to ply his brushes. He worked for some
time smoothly and rapidly, with an agreeable sense of the absence of
obstacles. It seemed almost an interruption when, in the silent air, he
heard a distant bell in the town strike noon. Shortly after this, there
was another interruption. The sound of a soft footstep caused him to
look up; whereupon he saw a young woman standing there and bending her
eyes upon the graceful artist. A second glance assured him that she
was that nice girl whom he had seen going into the other inn with her
mother, and suggested that she had just emerged from the little church.
He suspected, however--I hardly know why--that she had been looking
at him for some moments before he perceived her. It would perhaps be
impertinent to inquire what she thought of him; but Longueville, in the
space of an instant, made two or three reflections upon the young lady.
One of them was to the effect that she was a handsome creature, but
that she looked rather bold; the burden of the other was that--yes,
decidedly--she was a compatriot. She turned away almost as soon as she
met his eyes; he had hardly time to raise his hat, as, after a moment's
hesitation, he proceeded to do. She herself appeared to feel a certain
hesitation; she glanced back at the church door, as if under the impulse
to retrace her steps. She stood there a moment longer--long enough to
let him see that she was a person of easy attitudes--and then she walked
away slowly to the parapet of the terrace. Here she stationed herself,
leaning her arms upon the high stone ledge, presenting her back to
Longueville, and gazing at rural Italy. Longueville went on with his
sketch, but less attentively than before. He wondered what this young
lady was doing there alone, and then it occurred to him that her
companion--her mother, presumably--was in the church. The two ladies had
been in the church when he arrived; women liked to sit in churches; they
had been there more than half an hour, and the mother had not enough of
it even yet. The young lady, however, at present preferred the view that
Longueville was painting; he became aware that she had placed herself in
the very centre of his foreground. His first feeling was that she would
spoil it; his second was that she would improve it. Little by little she
turned more into profile, leaning only one arm upon the parapet,