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“Why are you not at Versailles?” she said, with an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of Hastings’ presence.

“I–I’m going,” murmured Clifford.

For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red, stammered, “With your permission I have the honour of presenting to you my friend, Monsieur Hastings.”

Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.

“I could have wished,” she said, “that Monsieur Clifford might spare me more time when he brings with him so charming an American.”

“Must–must I go, Valentine?” began Clifford.

“Certainly,” she replied.

Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added, “And give my dearest love to Cecile!” As he disappeared in the rue d’Assas, the girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering Hastings, looked at him and shook her head.

“Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly harebrained,” she smiled, “it is embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his success at the Salon?”

He looked puzzled and she noticed it.

“You have been to the Salon, of course?”

“Why, no,” he answered, “I only arrived in Paris three days ago.”

She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued: “Nobody imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on varnishing day the Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur Clifford, who strolled about as bland as you please with an orchid in his buttonhole, and a beautiful picture on the line.”

She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain.

“Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so astonished that he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and actually forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy,” she continued with much merriment, “fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back.”

Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau, looked at her with respect. “May I ask,” he said diffidently, “whether you are a pupil of Bouguereau?”

“I?” she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was he permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance?

His pleasant serious face questioned hers.

“Tiens,” she thought, “what a droll man!”

“You surely study art?” he said.

She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him. “Why do you think so?”

“Because you speak as if you did.”

“You are making fun of me,” she said, “and it is not good taste.”

She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair.

“How long have you been in Paris?” she said at length.

“Three days,” he replied gravely.

“But–but–surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!”

Then after a pause, “Really are you a nouveau?”

“I am,” he said.

She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and tilting her parasol over her small head looked at him.

“I don’t believe it.”

He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself one of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new and green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open very wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles.

“You have never seen a studio?”

“Never.”

“Nor a model?”

“No.”

“How funny,” she said solemnly. Then they both laughed.

“And you,” he said, “have seen studios?”

“Hundreds.”

“And models?”

“Millions.”

“And you know Bouguereau?”

“Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and Dagnan and Courtois, and–and all the rest of them!”

“And yet you say you are not an artist.”

“Pardon,” she said gravely, “did I say I was not?”

“Won’t you tell me?” he hesitated.

At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and now, with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying, “I won’t go home! I won’t go home!” His nurse raised her hands to Heaven.