He
expected to be gone a week; but week after week passed and he was still at
the capital, directing the paper by telegraph and sending Marian hurried
notes postponing his return. She was going about daily, early and late, her
life vacant, her mind restlessly seeking occupation, interest.
After he had been gone three weeks she found herself at dinner at Mrs.
Provost's next to a tall, fair-haired athletic young man of about her own
age. Something in his expression--perhaps the amused way in which he
studied the faces of the others--attracted her to him. She glanced over at
his card. It read "Mr. Shenstone."
"It doesn't add much to your information, does it?" he smiled, as he caught
her glance rising from the card.
"Nothing," she confessed candidly. "I never heard of you before."
"And yet I've been splashing about, trying to attract attention to myself,
for twelve years."
"Perhaps not in this particular pond."
"No, that is true."
"I was wondering what you do--lawyer, doctor, journalist, business man or
what.
"And what did you conclude?"
"I concluded that you did nothing."
"You are right. But I try--I paint."
"Portraits?"
"Yes."
"That explains your way of looking at people. Only, you'll get no customers
if you paint them as you see them.
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