"Oh, I have scarcely more than time left . . ."
Together they marched at that little quickstep the Parisian women take so prettily, so that seeing them trot, one scarcely thinks of their swiftness, so easy appears the gait.
"Do you pass here often?"
"Every day. But oftener on the other side of the terrace." (She pointed to the garden with its Watteau trees.) "I am just back from the Museum."
(He looked at the portfolio she carried.)
"Painter?" he asked.
"No," she replied, "that's too big a word. A little dauberette."
"Why? For your own pleasure?"
"Oh, no indeed! For money."
"For money?"
"It's horrid, isn't it? to make art for money?"
"It's particularly astonishing to make money if one cannot paint."
"It's just for that reason, you see. I'll explain it to you another time."
