otent technicalities and his interest she might
be able to achieve this time something short of atrocious.

He posed faithfully for Miss Desprey, and smiled at her with friendly
eyes whenever he caught anything more personal than the squinting
glance with which she professionally regarded him, putting him far away
or fetching him near, according to her art's requirements. They talked
in his rest, and he took pleasure in telling her how he enjoyed his
morning walks from his hotel, how the outdoor life delighted him, and
how all the suburban gardens seemed to have been brought to Paris to
glow and blossom in the venders' carts or in little baskets on the
backs of women and boys, and how thoroughly well worth living he
thought life in Paris was.

"There is," he finished, "nothing in the world which compares to the
Paris spring-time, I believe, but I have never been West. What is
spring like in Idaho?"

Miss Desprey laughed, touched her ruffled hair with painty fingers,
blushed, and mused.

"Oh, it's all right, I guess. There's a trolley-line in Centreville,
an electric plant and the oil works--no trees, no flowers, and the
people all look alike. So you see"--she had a dazzling way of shaking
her head, when her fine white teeth, her sunny dishevelled hair, her
bright cheeks and eyes seemed all to flash and chime together--"so you
see, spring in Centreville and _Paris_ isn't the same thing at all!
Things are beautiful everywhere," she assured him slowly as she
painted, "if you're happy--and I was very unhappy in Centreville, so I
thought I'd come away and try to have a career." She poured out a long
stream of _garance_ from the tube on to her palette. Bulstrode
watched, fascinated.

"And here in Paris, are you--have you been happy here?"

"Oh, dear no!" she laughed; "perfectly miserable. And it used to seem
as though it was cruel of the city to be so gay and happy when I
couldn't join in--" Bulstrode, remembering the one franc a day and the
very questionable inspiration her poor art could impart, understood;
his face was full of feeling--"until," she went slowly on, "lately."
She stepped behind the canvas and was lost to sight. "I've been
awfully happy in Paris for the first time. I do like beautiful
things--but I like beautiful people better--and you're
beautiful--beautiful."

She finished with a blush and a smile.

Bulstrode grew to think nothing at all about his portrait further than
fervently to hope