"Well, after all, he says no more for water, than has been said by the poets of all nature, from the time of the first pastoral; they tell us that the sun will make a bare old mountain smile, and the wind will throw the finest forest into a fuss."
"I defy you to prove any fuss upon Charlie's works!"
"Perhaps not--Where is his study? I should like to see what he has done. Is his pencil always amphibious?"
"Yes; I believe he has never yet painted a landscape, without its portion of water. If you wish to see his study, you must go soon; he sails for Italy next month."
"If his partiality for water is really honest, it may help him on in his profession. Has he a good execution?--that is all-important."
"Decidedly good; and he improves every day. Execution is really all-important to Hubbard; for there can be no doubt that he possesses all an artist's conception."
"I suspect though, his notion about expressive water is not original. It appears to me, some German or other calls water, 'the eyes of a landscape.'"
"Very possibly; but Charlie Hubbard is not the man to steal other people's ideas, and pass them off for his own."
"You make a point of always believing the worst of everybody, Mr. Stryker," said Mrs. de Vaux.
"I wish I could help it." said the gentleman, raising his eyebrows.
"Suppose, Mr. Hazlehurst, you take him to Mr. Hubbard's studio, and force him to admire that fine picture of Lake Ontario. I should like to see it again, myself; and Mr. de Vaux has been talking of carrying us all to Mr. Hubbard's, some time."
Harry professed himself quite at Mrs. de Vaux's service. Mrs. Stanley, he said, was going to see his friend's pictures the very next day. A party was soon arranged, the hour fixed, and everything settled, before supper was announced. As Mrs. de Vaux and Mr. Stryker moved towards the door, they were followed by Mrs. Creighton and Harry.
"Who was the young man you were talking with at supper, Josephine?" asked Mr. Ellsworth, as he stepped into the carriage after Mrs. Creighton and Harry, in driving away from the wedding.
"Which do you mean?"
"A mere boy--one of the groomsmen, by the white favours in his button-hole."
"Oh, that was the groom's brother, Mr. Pompey Taylor, the younger, a very simple, and rather an awkward young gentleman. I had the honour of making the acquaintance of all the family, in the course of the evening. I was quite amused with Mr. Taylor, the father; he really seems to have as great a relish for the vanities of life, as any young girl of fifteen."
"Because they are quite as new to him," said Hazlehurst.
"That is difficult to believe of a clever, calculating man of fifty," observed Mr. Ellsworth.
"All clever men of fifty are not quite free from nonsense, take my word for it," said the lady.
"I appeal to Mr. Hazlehurst, who knows Mr. Taylor; as for myself, I am convinced by the man's manner this evening."
"You are certainly correct in your opinion, Mrs. Creighton. Mr. Taylor is, no doubt, a clever man; and yet he takes delight in every piece of finery about his house. He is more possessed with the spirit of sheer ostentation, than any man I ever met with."
"Ah, you want to save the credit of your sex, by setting him down as an exception!--that is not fair, Mr. Hazlehurst."
It was a pity that the pretty smile which the lady bestowed on her brother's friend was entirely thrown away; but the lamp-light happened to be little more than darkness visible.
