Their lips met.

He took her parasol and divested her of her spring jacket with the
prompt, swift movement indicating familiarity with this service. As she
seated herself on the divan, he asked with an air of interest:

"Is all going well with your husband?"

"Very well; he must be making a speech in the House at this very
moment."

"Ah! On what, pray?"

"Oh--no doubt on beets or on rape-seed oil, as usual!"

Her husband, the Comte de Guilleroy, deputy from the Eure, made a
special study of all questions of agricultural interest.

Perceiving in one corner a sketch that she did not recognize, the lady
walked across the studio, asking, "What is that?"

"A pastel that I have just begun--the portrait of the Princesse de
Ponteve."

"You know," said the lady gravely, "that if you go back to painting
portraits of women I shall close your studio. I know only too well to
what that sort of thing leads!"

"Oh, but I do not make twice a portrait of Any!" was the answer.

"I hope not, indeed!"

She examined the newly begun pastel sketch with the air of a woman that
understands the technic of art. She stepped back, advanced, made a shade
of her hand, sought the place where the best light fell on the sketch,
and finally expressed her satisfaction.

"It is very good. You succeed admirably with pastel work."

"Do you think so?" murmured the flattered artist.

"Yes; it is a most delicate art, needing great distinction of style. It
cannot be handled by masons in the art of painting."

For twelve years the Countess had encouraged the painter's leaning
toward the distinguished in art, opposing his occasional return to
the simplicity of realism; and, in consideration of the demands of
fashionable modern elegance, she had tenderly urged him toward an ideal
of grace that was slightly affected and artificial.

"What is the Princess like?" she asked.

He was compelled to give her all sorts of details--those minute details
in which the jealous and subtle curiosity of women delights, passing
from remarks upon her toilet to criticisms of her intelligence.

Suddenly she inquired: "Does she flirt with you?"

He laughed, and declared that she did not.

Then, putting both hands on the shoulders of the painter, the Countess
gazed fixedly at him. The ardor of her questioning look caused a quiver
in the pupils of her blue eyes, flecked with almost imperceptible black
points, like tiny ink-spots.

Again she murmured: "Truly,