their pink tips on
the window pane; the pucker became more pronounced. Well, she _had_
done it, nevertheless. And why was it so absurd, so ridiculous, so
impossible after all? She would do exactly the same thing over again
without an instant's hesitation. It was quite true the man was a
fisherman--but he did not _look_ like a fisherman. He was magnificent!
It was not ridiculous at all--it was piquantly delightful. Neither was
it so absurdly impossible--if she did not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, it
would only be to choose some other place equally as tiresome--and
without even a "fisherman" to compensate for it. What a face the man
had! It was not merely handsome, it was--well, it was the prototype of
what the artist coterie that buzzed around her father day and night was
forever attempting to give expression to, but which, until now, she had
never believed could exist in real life. He would be a refreshing
change this astounding man-creature, this Jean Laparde, after the vapid
attentions of the vapid men who made up her life in the social whirl of
Paris--Count von Heirlich and Lord Barnvegh, for examples, out of a
host of satellites who were constantly at her heels, because, of
course, she was an heiress; and whose attentions she endured because,
of course, some day she must marry, and because, of course again, to
marry anything less than a title, a name, fame, was quite out of the
question. As for that, no one expected anything but a brilliant match
for her--and certainly she expected nothing less for herself. What a
pity that they were not like Jean Laparde, those men of her world!

The fingers, from the window pane, tossed back a truant coil of hair;
the white shoulders lifted in a little shrug. Paris--New York! That
was all the world she knew. New York once a year--Paris the rest of
the time. Expatriates--for art! That's what they were! Art--her
father was obsessed with it. It was a mania with him; it was the last
thing in the world that interested her. As a matter of fact, she
couldn't seem to think of anything that particularly interested her.
One tired quickly enough of the social merry-go-round--after a season
it became inane. One surely had the right to amuse one's self with a
new sensation--if one could find it! The man had the physique of a
young god. A fisherman--well, what of it? He was splendid. He was
more than splendid. Even the crude dress seemed to enhance him. It
was a face that