"
"Well!" replied Strong. "We will invent something." Catherine returned a
few minutes later, and he asked her how she got on with the task-master,
and whether he had yet recovered her favor.
"Since the beetle turned on him," said Catherine, "we have got on like
two little blind mice. He has been as kind to me as though I were his
mother; but why is he so mysterious? He will not tell me his history."
"He is the same to us all," said Strong. "Some people think he is
ashamed of his origin. He was picked out of the gutters of Cincinnati by
some philanthropist and sent abroad for an education. The fact is that
he cares no more about his origin than you do for being a Sioux Indian,
but he had the misfortune to marry badly in Europe, and hates to talk of
it."
"Then he has a wife already, when he is breaking my young heart?"
exclaimed Catherine.
"I would like to calm your fears, my poor child," said Strong; "but the
truth is that no one knows what has become of his wife. She may be
alive, and she may be dead. Do you want me to find out?"
"I am dying to know," said Catherine; "but I will make him tell me all
about it one of these days."
"Never!" replied Strong. "He lives only in his art since the collapse of
his marriage. He eats and drinks paint."
"Does he really paint so very well?" asked Catherine thoughtfully. "Is
he a great genius?"
"Young woman, we are all of us great geniuses.
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