He was a famous painter, this Irishman who had prevailed upon her in a laughing moment to call him Kenny; a famous painter with a personality as vivid as his face.

And yet he chose to linger at her uncle's farm.

The color, the gayety, the sparkle, he seemed miraculously to infuse into existence, left her breathless and startled.

And he knew not one spot and one land.

He knew many spots, some wild and remote, and many lands.