thoroughness with which the French women kept house, rejoicing in the
absence of the American leaning to incessant activity. Angela was struck
by the very moderate prices for laundry, the skill with which their
concierge--who governed this quarter and who knew sufficient English to
talk to her--did her marketing, cooking, sewing and entertaining. The
richness of supply and aimless waste of Americans was alike unknown.
Because she was naturally of a domestic turn Angela became very intimate
with Madame Bourgoche and learned of her a hundred and one little tricks
of domestic economy and arrangement.

"You're a peculiar girl, Angela," Eugene once said to her. "I believe
you would rather sit down stairs and talk to that French-woman than meet
the most interesting literary or artistic personage that ever was. What
do you find that's so interesting to talk about?"

"Oh, nothing much," replied Angela, who was not unconscious of the
implied hint of her artistic deficiencies. "She's such a smart woman.
She's so practical. She knows more in a minute about saving and buying
and making a little go a long way than any American woman I ever saw.
I'm not interested in her any more than I am in anyone else. All the
artistic people do, that I can see, is to run around and pretend that
they're a whole lot when they're not."

Eugene saw that he had made an irritating reference, not wholly intended
in the way it was being taken.

"I'm not saying she isn't able," he went on. "One talent is as good as
another, I suppose. She certainly looks clever enough to me. Where is
her husband?"

"He was killed in the army," returned Angela dolefully.

"Well I suppose you'll learn enough from her to run a hotel when you get
back to New York. You don't know enough about housekeeping now, do you?"

Eugene smiled with his implied compliment. He was anxious to get
Angela's mind off the art question. He hoped she would feel or see that
he meant nothing, but she was not so easily pacified.

"You don't think I'm so bad, Eugene, do you?" she asked after a moment.
"You don't think it makes so much difference whether I talk to Madame
Bourgoche? She isn't so dull. She's awfully smart. You just haven't
talked to her. She says she can tell by looking at you that you're a
great artist. You're different. You remind her of a Mr. Degas that once
lived here. Was he a great artist?"

"Was he!" said Eugene. "Well I guess yes. Did he have this studio?"

"Oh, a lo