ever can tell what women will do," Rene Caillard said one evening,
when five or six of them were sitting smoking together. "Now, Minette
might have the pick of us."

"No, no, Rene," one of the others protested, "most of us are suited
already."

"Well, several of us, then. I am at present unattached, and so are
Andre, and Pierre, and Jean; so is Cuthbert. Now, putting us aside, no
woman in her senses could hesitate between the Englishman and Dampierre.
He has a better figure, is stronger and better looking. He is cleverer,
and is as good-tempered as the American is bad; and yet she takes a
fancy for Dampierre, and treats all the rest of us, including the
Englishman, as if we were boys."

"I fancy women like deference," Pierre Leroux said. "She is a good
comrade with us all, she laughs and jokes with us as if she were one of
ourselves. Now the American very seldom laughs and never jokes. He
treats her as if she were a duchess and takes her altogether seriously.
I believe he would be capable of marrying her."

The others all burst into a laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" Cuthbert asked, as he entered the room at
the moment.

"Pierre is just saying that he thinks the American is capable of
marrying Minette."

"I hope not," Cuthbert said, more seriously than he generally spoke.
"Minette is altogether charming as she is. She is full of fun and life;
she is clever and sparkling. There is no doubt that in her style she is
very pretty. As to her grace it needs no saying. I think she is an
honest good girl, but the idea of marrying her would frighten me. We see
the surface and it is a very pleasant one, but it is only the surface.
Do you think a woman could look as she does in some of her poses and not
feel it? We have never seen her in a passion, but if she got into one,
it would be terrible. When she flashes out sometimes it is like a tongue
of flame from a slumbering volcano. You would feel that there might be
an eruption that would sweep everything before it. As you know, I gave
up painting her after the first two months, but I sketch her in every
pose; not always her whole figure, but her face, and keep the sketches
for use some day. I was looking through them only yesterday and I said
to myself, 'this woman is capable of anything.' She might be a Joan of
Arc, or Lucraetzia Borghia. She is a puzzle to me altogether. Put her in
a quiet, happy home and she might turn out one of the best of women. Let
her be thrown i