In the midst of these unhappy complications, he was one morning working
upon the portrait of Miss Damaris Wainwright, whose cousin and aunts,
the Dimmonts, had induced her to have it painted, although she was in
deep mourning. He was interested in the lovely, melancholy girl, and he
felt that he was doing some of the best work of his life in her
portrait. He sometimes was proud of his skill, and at others he was
unreasonably vexed that this picture should be so much better than that
of Mr. Hubbard promised to be.
He had been talking this morning half-absently, and merely for the sake
of keeping his sitter interested. He had not noticed that her whole
being was keyed up to a pitch of intense feeling, and he had almost
unconsciously accomplished the really difficult task of putting his
sitter at her ease and making her ready to talk.
Suddenly, after a brief silence, she said,--"You provoke confidences."
Some note in her voice and the closeness of connection between her
words and the thought in his own mind that he certainly must be able to
do what Irons asked, arrested Fenton's attention.
"Yes," he returned, his air of sincerely meaning what he said being by
no means wholly unreal; "that is because I am unworthy of them."
Miss Wainwright smiled. The self-detraction seemed delicate, and the
unexpectedness of the reply amused her.
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