ly acquired, were a matter of course. In deference to an
unuttered request we adjourned to the studio upstairs, for Miss Fraenkel
had been from the first candidly attracted by the suggestion of
bohemianism in our _menage_. It was not her romantic view of an artist's
life, however, that distinguished her from any other young and romantic
lady, but her frankness and eloquence in acknowledging it. "It must be
grand," she had told me in Lexington Avenue, "to be a _grisette_." We
had admitted that it must, but had been unable to share her regret that
she had not been a man "so that she could see _everything_." She was
very charming as she was.

Of course she knew of the painter-cousin and indeed, as soon as she
could think of it, gave us the needed opening.

"I saw a letter with an English postmark for you," she observed,
examining the bottom of a piece of china that rested near her shoulder.
"Did you get it?"

"We want you to give us an opinion about it, Miss Fraenkel," said Bill,
bringing out the letter and giving it to her. She accepted the packet in
some uncertainty.

"I!" she said, "give an opinion? I don't get it, I'm afraid."

"Read it," said Bill.

And she did. We sat round her, as she sat on the broad flat box that Mac
called a "throne," in a semicircle, and studied the varying expressions
that crossed her face as her eyes travelled down the pages. It occurred
to me after I had retired to my room that night, that an English girl of
twenty-one would not have weathered the concentrated gaze of three
strangers with such serenity of features. An observant and invisible
critic might have imagined us to have been awaiting the decision of a
young and charming Sibyl, so intently did we gaze and so neglectful was
she of our regard. This apparent coldness was explained to me by Bill as
a characteristic of the American woman. "They like to be admired," she
told me. "And so they don't mind if you do stare at them."

Miss Fraenkel looked up with a smile of comprehension.

"What a perfectly lovely letter!" she exclaimed.

Bill took the sheets and thrust them into the envelope.

"He must be a very interesting man, don't you think?"

"Surely! Oh, I should give anything to see his home. You've described it
to me, so I know all about it. Gainsborough landscape, and red tiles on
the cottages!" She clasped her hands.

"I mean the man my cousin met," said Bill, gently. "Carville."

"Oh, him!" Miss Fraenkel looked at each