lue and green keys in sky and forest.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "paint in the foreground a few peacocks
languidly dragging their gorgeous tails, and you have a Watteau or a
Fragonard--no, a Monticelli! Only, Monticelli would have made the
peacocks the central motive with the women and trees as an arabesque."

He was a portraitist who solemnly believed in the principle of
decoration--character must take its chances when he painted. Falcroft
was successful with women's heads, which he was fond of depicting in
misty shadows framed by luxurious accessories. They called him the
Master of Chiffon, at Julien's; when he threw overboard his old friends
and joined the new crowd, their indignation was great. His title now was
the Ribbon Impressionist, and at the last salon of the Independents,
Falcroft had the mortification of seeing a battalion of his former
companions at anchor in front of his picture, The Lady with the Cat,
which they reviled for at least an hour. He was an American who had
lived his life long in France, and only showed race in his nervous,
brilliant technic and his fondness for bizarre subjects....

He had not stood many minutes when a young voice saluted him:--

"Ah, Monsieur Falcroft. Come, come quickly. Mamma is delighted to see
you!" His mental picture was decomposed by the repeated waving of the
famous shawl, which only came into view as Berenice turned. Hubert
regretted that she had not worn it--the peacocks could have been
exchanged for its vivid note of scarlet. Pretending not to have heard
her speech, he gravely saluted the mother and daughter. But Berenice was
unabashed.

"Mamma was wondering if you would visit us to-night, Monsieur Falcroft,
when I saw you staring at us as if we were ghosts." A burst of malicious
laughter followed.

"Berenice, Berenice," remonstrated her mother, "when will you cease such
tasteless remarks!" She blushed in her pretty matronly fashion and put
her hand on her daughter's mouth.

"Don't mind her, Madame Mineur! I like to meet a French girl with a
little unconventionality. Berenice reminds me now of an English girl--"

"Or one of your own countrywomen!" interrupted Berenice; "and
please--_Miss_, after this, I am a grown young lady." He joined in the
merriment. She was not to be resisted and he wished--no, he did not
wish--but he thought, that if he were younger, what gay days he might
have. Yet he admired her mother much more. Elaine Cot-Mineur was an
old-fashion