e. All their
delicate boughs and twigs were shaking and dancing in the wind; and
their rain-washed leopard-like bodies had a lithe un-English gaiety.
Noel passed down their line, and seated herself on a bench. Close by, an
artist was painting. His easel was only some three yards away from her,
and she could see the picture; a vista of the Park Lane houses through,
the gay plane-tree screen. He was a tall man, about forty, evidently
foreign, with a thin, long, oval, beardless face, high brow, large grey
eyes which looked as if he suffered from headaches and lived much within
himself. He cast many glances at her, and, pursuant of her new interest
in "life" she watched him discreetly; a little startled however, when,
taking off his broad-brimmed squash hat, he said in a broken accent:

"Forgive me the liberty I take, mademoiselle, but would you so very
kindly allow me to make a sketch of you sitting there? I work very
quick. I beg you will let me. I am Belgian, and have no manners, you
see." And he smiled.

"If you like," said Noel.

"I thank you very much:"

He shifted his easel, and began to draw. She felt flattered, and a
little fluttered. He was so pale, and had a curious, half-fed look,
which moved her.

"Have you been long in England?" she said presently.

"Ever since the first months of the war."

"Do you like it?"

"I was very homesick at first. But I live in my pictures; there are
wonderful things in London."

"Why did you want to sketch me?"

The painter smiled again. "Mademoiselle, youth is so mysterious. Those
young trees I have been painting mean so much more than the old big
trees. Your eyes are seeing things that have not yet happened. There is
Fate in them, and a look of defending us others from seeing it. We
have not such faces in my country; we are simpler; we do not defend our
expressions. The English are very mysterious. We are like children to
them. Yet in some ways you are like children to us. You are not people
of the world at all. You English have been good to us, but you do not
like us."

"And I suppose you do not like us, either?"

He smiled again, and she noticed how white his teeth were.

"Well, not very much. The English do things from duty, but their hearts
they keep to themselves. And their Art--well, that is really amusing!"

"I don't know much about Art," Noel murmured.

"It is the world to me," said the painter, and was silent, drawing with
increased pace and passion.