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There was a buttress of Notre Dame, a black arch of the Pont Neuf, part of an old courtyard in the Faubourg St. Germain,–all very fresh and striking. Yet, with the recollection of his poverty in her mind, she could not help saying, “But if you copied one of those masterpieces, you know you could sell it. There is always a demand for that work.”

“Yes,” he replied, “but these help me in my line, which is architectural study. It is, perhaps, not very ambitious,” he added thoughtfully, “but,” brightening up again, “I sell these sketches, too. They are quite marketable, I assure you.”

Helen’s heart sank again. She remembered now to have seen such sketches–she doubted not they were his–in the cheap shops in the Rue Poissoniere, ticketed at a few francs each. She was silent as he patiently turned them over. Suddenly she uttered a little cry.

He had just uncovered a little sketch of what seemed at first sight only a confused cluster of roof tops, dormer windows, and chimneys, level with the sky-line. But it was bathed in the white sunshine of Paris, against the blue sky she knew so well. There, too, were the gritty crystals and rust of the tiles, the red, brown, and greenish mosses of the gutters, and lower down the more vivid colors of geraniums and pansies in flower-pots under the white dimity curtains which hid the small panes of garret windows; yet every sordid detail touched and transfigured with the poetry and romance of youth and genius.

“You have seen this?” she said.

“Yes; it is a study from my window. One must go high for such effects. You would be surprised if you could see how different the air and sunshine”–

“No,” she interrupted gently, “I HAVE seen it.”

“You?” he repeated, gazing at her curiously.

Helen ran the point of her slim finger along the sketch until it reached a tiny dormer window in the left-hand corner, half-hidden by an irregular chimney-stack. The curtains were closely drawn. Keeping her finger upon the spot, she said, interrogatively, “And you saw THAT window?”

“Yes, quite plainly. I remember it was always open, and the room seemed empty from early morning to evening, when the curtains were drawn.”

“It is my room,” she said simply.

Their eyes met with this sudden confession of their equal poverty. “And mine,” he said gayly, “from which this view was taken, is in the rear and still higher up on the other street.”

They both laughed as if some singular restraint had been removed; Helen even forgot the incident of the bread in her relief. Then they compared notes of their experiences, of their different concierges, of their housekeeping, of the cheap stores and the cheaper restaurants of Paris,–except one. She told him her name, and learned that his was Philip, or, if she pleased, Major Ostrander. Suddenly glancing at her companions, who were ostentatiously lingering at a little distance, she became conscious for the first time that she was talking quite confidentially to a very handsome man, and for a brief moment wished, she knew not why, that he had been plainer. This momentary restraint was accented by the entrance of a lady and gentleman, rather distingue in dress and bearing, who had stopped before them, and were eying equally the artist, his work, and his companion with somewhat insolent curiosity. Helen felt herself stiffening; her companion drew himself up with soldierly rigidity. For a moment it seemed as if, under that banal influence, they would part with ceremonious continental politeness, but suddenly their hands met in a national handshake, and with a frank smile they separated.

Helen rejoined her companions.

“So you have made a conquest of the recently acquired but unknown Greek statue?” said Mademoiselle Renee lightly. “You should take up a subscription to restore his arm, ma petite, if there is a modern sculptor who can do it. You might suggest it to the two Russian cognoscenti, who have been hovering around him as if they wanted to buy him as well as his work. Madame La Princesse is rich enough to indulge her artistic taste.”