“Should we go back?” Newly aware of her friend’s unease on horseback, Beth was anxious to guard her comfort.

“No, the day is pleasant yet. And though it surprizes me to admit this, I am enjoying the ride. My nursemaid is taking splendid care of me.”

“Are you certain?

Jane said that she was. Mr. Dunkirk turned his horse’s head to ride along the side of the hedgerow. For a time, the three of them ambled together, talking idly of the sorts of easy topics which a pleasant day inspires.

As the hedgerow turned, they spied Mr. Vincent sketching under a shaded patch on the far side. A quicksilver of unease flourished through Jane’s joints. They had come upon him while he was engaged in the very activity in which he least appreciated company.

Mr. Dunkirk hailed the glamourist, who, much to Jane’s surprize, smiled upon spying him. By the word “smile,” make no mistake that Mr. Vincent bared his teeth or in any other way effused, but the slight upturn of his lips warmed his face and gave ample evidence of a sincere pleasure at their presence.

Or, rather, at the Dunkirks’ presence, for Jane detected a slight compression in his jaw when he spied her. No doubt he had wished to see her sister. Nonetheless, he bowed correctly and shewed no other sign of displeasure.

Beth said, “What a fine day for drawing. You must be in raptures about the light. Truly I can think of nothing that mars the day.”

“If you discount the bugs and the heat, then yes, it is a fine day.” He returned his attention to his sketchbook and continued drawing, as if expecting them to leave shortly.

Laughing, Beth said, “You would find something to complain about in Paradise.”

“I do not complain about flaws; I merely note them.” His gaze lifted from the page for a moment to look at Jane. “I believe this is a trait belonging to all artists. Do you agree, Miss Ellsworth?”

Her heart sped unaccountably at the challenge in his gaze. “In part, which I suspect proves your point. I think it is difficult for an artist to view something without an eye to improving it.”

Mr. Dunkirk said, “So would you then also find the flaws in Paradise?”

“I do not know. One would think that by its very nature, Paradise must embody perfection. Thus if one were to find flaws, it must not be Paradise. But I have often thought that the juxtaposition of the perfect with the flawed is the only thing which allows us to appreciate perfection.”

Mr. Vincent nodded but said nothing; his pencil continued to move across the page. Jane cast about, looking for the thing which held his interest so completely. Beyond them, a gnarled apple tree twisted in a most picturesque manner, the branches seeming to have been pruned by a heavenly gardener into a pleasing shape.

Beth wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Vincent, I do not notice you enjoying the day any more because of the bugs and heat.”