"
"It seems hard," Bernard went on, musing, "that anybody like you,
Melissa, with such a natural love of art and of all beautiful
things,--anybody who can draw such sweet dreams of delight as those
heads you showed us after Filippo Lippi, anybody who can appreciate
Florence and Venice and Rome as you do,--should have to live all
her life in a far Western town, and meet with so little sympathy
as you're likely to find there."
"That's the rub," Melissa replied, looking up into his face with
such a confiding look. (If any pretty girl had looked up at ME
like that, I should have known what to do with her; but Bernard
was twenty-four, and young men are modest.) "That's the rub, Mr.
Hancock. I like--well, European society so very much better. Our
men are nice enough in their own way, don't you know; but they
somehow lack polish--at least, out West, I mean, in Kansas City.
Europeans may n't be very much better when you get right at them,
perhaps; but on the outside, anyway to ME, they're more attractive
somehow."
There was another long pause, during which I felt as guilty as
ever eavesdropper before me. Yet I was glued to the spot.
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