o pieces
in a few days, and--stupid! Of course! Had she not been often in
those dirty _ateliers_ that were always in a mess with their clay and
their plaster? One could send it to Marseilles to have a cast made;
and, afterwards, the cast could be sent home to Paris.

What was her father going to do with this "discovery" of his, as he
called it? Discovery--_his_! A little thrill ran through her. It was
not his discovery--it was _hers_! It was she who had discovered Jean
Laparde--in that one look. The man's soul, a great smouldering volcano
of emotion, was in his face, his eyes. It was amazing that this had
happened; amazing almost beyond credence that, hidden in the little
village, a fisherman, untaught, unconscious even of his own power, had
produced a piece of work that had aroused her father, one of the great
art critics in France, to such a pitch of elated excitement--but
somehow it was not in the least bit amazing that it was _Jean Laparde_
who had done it!

Her eyes fixed again on the boat, that was well in now between the reef
and the headland; and, with a sudden little gasp, she rose quickly to
her feet--it was Jean Laparde himself. What splendid width of
shoulder, what strength, and ease, and assurance in the sweep of the
oars that bent the blades backward from swirling little eddies, that
lifted the heavy boat to send it bounding forward as though it were a
feather-weight. It was Jean Laparde--the fiance of Marie-Louise!

It was to the front at last, that thought! It had been dominant from
the moment Marie-Louise had uttered the words, only she had attempted
to ignore it, lose it in the other phases of this bewildering morning.
But it was out now! Well, what of it? It was an impossible situation
this that she had created, was it not? There was no use in denying
even to herself that the man had aroused in her--what should she call
it?--a desire to cultivate him a little, since he would be so new, so
fresh, so quite different. And Marie-Louise was at the moment now
actually in her employ as--one could not call her a servant, it was
Marie-Louise's own house, and she was only there to help for a little
while at the cure's request--but still--the colour burned red in
Myrna's cheeks.

The next instant, she smiled a little. What a simpleton she was! What
on earth did it matter! What could it possibly matter! Good heavens,
she wasn't going to take this Jean Laparde away from Marie-Louise!
_She_