“I can’t tell why it is,” said Katharine, when she was alone with her mother, “but that man is positively repulsive to me. It must be something besides his ugliness, and even that ought to be redeemed by his eyes and that beautiful voice of his. But it’s not. There’s something about him--” She stopped, in the sheer impossibility of expressing her meaning.
Her mother said nothing in answer, but looked at her with calm and quiet eyes, rather thoughtfully.
“Is it very foolish of me, mother? Don’t you notice something, too, when he’s near you?”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to say. That and--the title of Tennyson’s poem, what is it? Oh--‘A Vision of Sin’--don’t you know?”
“Poor Crowdie!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, laughing a little, but still looking at Katharine.
“I wonder what induced Hester to marry him.”
“He fascinated her. Besides, she’s very fond of music, and so is he, and he sang to her and she played for him. It seems to have succeeded very well. I believe they are perfectly happy.”
“Oh, perfectly. At least, Hester always says so. But did you ever notice--sometimes, without any special reason, she looks at him so anxiously? Just as though she expected something to happen to him, or that he should do something queer. It may be my imagination.”
“I never noticed it. She’s tremendously in love with him. That may account for it.”
“Well--if she’s happy--” Katharine did not finish the sentence. “He does stare dreadfully, though,” she resumed a moment later. “But I suppose all artists do that. They are always looking at one’s features. You don’t, though.”
“I? I’m always looking at people’s faces and trying to see how I could paint them best. But I don’t stare. People don’t like it, and it isn’t necessary. Crowdie is vain. He has beautiful eyes and he wants every one to notice them.”
“If that’s it, at all events he has the sense to be vain of his best point,” said Katharine. “He’s not an artist for nothing. And he’s certainly very clever in all sorts of ways.”
“He didn’t say anything particularly clever at dinner, I thought. By the bye, was the dinner good? Your father didn’t tell me Crowdie was coming.”
“Oh, yes; it did very well,” answered Katharine, in a reassuring tone. “At least, I didn’t notice what we had. He always takes away my appetite. I shall go and steal something when he’s gone. Let’s sit up late, mother--just you and I--after papa has gone to bed, and we’ll light a little wee fire, and have a tiny bit of supper, and make ourselves comfortable, and abuse Mr. Crowdie just as much as we like. Won’t that be nice? Do!”