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They swam about among the pieces of ice for a while, but it was so cold that they soon came up on the bank into the sun again and wiggled their tails to shake out the water. Then they all sat down in the sun to get their feet warm. Kit and Kat ran up and down the road and played tag until their cheeks were red and they were warm as toast. Then they ran into Vrouw Vedder's warm kitchen.
Vedder has spoken of a certain "home-made" character which he considers the greatest defect of his art, the character of an art belonging to no distinctive school and having no definite relation to the time and country in which it is produced. But it is not Mr. Vedder's art alone that is home-made.
"Then you may sell me a cabbage and ten onions," said Vrouw Van der Kloot. Father Vedder's eyes twinkled, and he lit his pipe. Kit got a cabbage for the Vrouw. "You can get the ten onions," he said to Kat. You see, really Kit couldn't count ten and be sure of it. So he asked Kat to do it. Kat wasn't afraid. She took out a little pile of onions in a measure, and said to Vrouw Van der Kloot,
I hoped that Ian would double Vedder's wages, and afterward he did. We drove fast to Sweetheart Abbey, with the heather moon in the east, a sweet, pale, thin-cheeked moon, past her prime of youth, but more beautiful and kind than ever.
"The folks want to leave right away, and we must get busy plantin'. I went to Vedder's friend, the real estate man, this mornin' as soon as I got back, and he says it's a real bargain." "But why isn't Bud going?" "This morning," informed Mrs. Jenkins proudly, "Bud had an offer. As soon as the theatre shuts down, Mr. Vedder is going to take Bud to a big resort and manage him for the season.
The children at the Guild school had been given a few general rules in table deportment, but Amarilly had followed every movement of Colette's so faithfully at the eventful luncheon that she ate very slowly, used the proper forks and spoons, and won Derry's undisguised admiration. "Mr. Vedder's, good," she thought. "Mr. St. John's grand, but this 'ere Mr. Derry's folksy.
"What can a sensible man like Boris Ragnor see in such a harum-scarum girl!" was Rahal Ragnor's question, and Barbara Brodie thought it was all Adam Vedder's fault.
"Wall," sez he, "you'll see five hundred folks a-standin' round and praisin' up them seed picters where there is one that gits carried away as you do over Wattses 'Love and Death' and Elihu Vedder's dum picters." "Wall," sez I, in a tired-out axent, "that don't prove anything, Josiah Allen. The multitude chose Barrabus to the Divine One.
Flirting and dancing, charades and singing, stories and statues, poems and pictures, gossip and gambols, absorbed the hours as pleasantly as in the olden time. And if the costumes were not as picturesque as those in Vedder's fine picture, the ladies were as lovely, the gentlemen as gallant, and all much better behaved than those of Boccaccio's party.
Rembrandt is a prophet-wizard, not only in his shadowy portraits, but in his etchings of holy scenes even his simplest cobweb lines become incantations. Vedder's portraits of Lazarus and Samson are conceptions that touch the hem of the unknown. George Frederick Watts was a painter of portraits of the soul itself, as in his delineations of Burne-Jones and Morris and Tennyson.
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