ce,
who worked away bravely amid her clay, a burnisher's apron reaching
nearly to her neck, allowing her small, proud head to emerge with those
transparent tones, those gleams of veiled radiance of which the sense,
the inspiration bring the blood to the cheek as they pass. Paul always
remembered what had been said of her in his presence, endeavoured to
form an opinion for himself, doubted, worried himself, and was charmed,
vowing to himself each time that he would come no more and never missing
a Sunday. A little woman with gray, powdered hair was always there in
the same place, her pink face like a pastel somewhat worn by years, who,
in the discrete light of a recess, smiled sweetly, with her hands lying
idly on her knees, motionless as a fakir. Jenkins, amiable, with his
open face, his black eyes, and his apostolical manner, moved on from one
group to another, liked and known by all. He did not miss, either, one
of Felicia's days; and, indeed, he showed his patience in this, all the
snubs of his hostess both as artist and pretty woman being reserved for
him alone. Without appearing to notice them, with ever the same smiling,
indulgent serenity, he continued to pay his visits to the daughter of
his old Ruys, of the man whom he had so loved and tended to his last
moments.

This time, however, the question which Felicia had just addressed to him
respecting his son appeared extremely disagreeable to him, and it was
with a frown and a real expression of annoyance that he replied:
"Ma foi! I know no more than yourself what he is doing. He has quite
deserted us. He was bored at home. He cares only for his Bohemia."

Felicia gave a jump that made them all start, and with flashing eyes and
nostrils that quivered, said:

"That is too absurd. Ah, now, come, Jenkins. What do you mean by
Bohemia? A charming word, by-the-bye, and one that ought to recall long
days of wandering in the sun, halts in woody nooks, all the freshness of
fruits gathered by the open road. But since you have made a reproach of
the name, to whom do you apply it? To a few poor devils with long hair,
in love with liberty in rags, who starve to death in a fifth-floor
garret, or seek rhymes under tiles through which the rain filters;
to those madmen, growing more and more rare, who, from horror of the
customary, the traditional, the stupidity of life, have put their feet
together and made a jump into freedom? Come, that is too old a story.
It is the Bohemia o