Jane twitched in surprize and drove the needle into her finger, wondering if she had given herself away by some sigh. Looking up, she saw that Beth was staring out the window with a gaze both melancholy and with the same tenderness which Jane had seen on her sister’s face, and in unguarded moments, on her own. “Every girl does, I think, but the feeling soon passes.”

“Not if it is real love, it doesn’t.” Beth seemed to recollect herself. She returned her gaze to the book, stammering, “At least, that’s what all the books say.”

“One must not put trust in novelists, Beth; they create worlds to fit their own needs and drive their characters mad in doing it.” Jane returned her gaze to her sewing, but continued to watch Beth from the corners of her eyes. “What has made you think of such a thing? Is it only the book we are enjoying?”

“Well, that, and something that Mr. Vincent said the other day when he was talking of art. He said that it was his one true love, and that he had no room in his life for anyone other than his muse. And I said, ‘What, really?’ because I had always thought that artists were passionate, but he was always so cold.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said that he wasn’t cold, merely focused. That he could not trust himself to speak because his passion made him uncivil.”

Jane laughed, remembering her encounter with him at the strawberry party. “He can be at that.”

“I don’t think he means to be, though.” Beth was silent for a long moment, still staring out the window toward, Jane realized, the spot where Mr. Vincent had stood painting. “I think his muse is a real person who he cannot be with due to his circumstances. Did you know . . . ?” She leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, “Did you know that Vincent is not his real name? I do not know what it is, but I know that he has some secret in his past, because I overheard my brother talking about it with the investigator before he hired Mr. Vincent to tutor me. Is that not the most romantic thing? I think that is why he is so brooding all the time, because of his muse.”

“I think he is brooding because he enjoys being disagreeable.” Jane waited for Beth to laugh, but she did not. Jane suddenly had the uncomfortable sensation that Beth had other reasons for wondering about love and muses. Carefully, so that it might seem like playful teasing, Jane tried to draw her out by saying, “And why do you brood? Do you have a muse?”

At this, Beth did laugh, blushing, and turned her face away. “It is not Mr. Vincent, if that is what you think.”

A silence reigned between them for some moments, until Beth picked up the book and resumed her reading, as if nothing had occurred. Too distracted to follow the plight of the heroine of Beth’s book, Jane continued working on her needlepoint, willing to pretend that the conversation had not happened, but conscious that Beth held a secret in her heart.