a touch of sarcasm, altogether the last person in the world one would have expected to choose painting as a profession, still less to have become an "impressionist." Yet "impressionism" held her in its grip, as it did her brother. Unfortunately she was, physically, far from strong. Even in this summer season she had a cough, and was always trying to do twice as much as her strength warranted. Paris was probably the worst place for her in the winter, yet she had been here nearly a year because of her brother, and here she meant to remain.
Alaric Baring, who was two years older, was tall and thin—it might be said angular. He had a chivalrous-looking head, not absolutely handsome, for his cheek-bones were too high, his nose too aquiline, and his pointed beard was of that reddish hue which is chiefly appreciated on canvas. He had often a strange, abstracted look on his face, as though his thoughts were very far away. Madame de Belcour said he represented to her what Don Quixote must have been before—but not very long before—he went mad. This was said after they had been in the pension together for some months, during which she had vainly endeavoured to ensnare him. He did not avoid her; it was for him as though the lady did not exist. He bowed when they met; he answered if she spoke; but half the time at table, though she sat directly opposite to him, he seemed not to see her. It must be confessed he rarely contributed much to the conviviality of the board. He was a tacitarn man at times, and those times when it most behooved him to talk. Elizabeth, who sat between him and Dr. Morin, found the Frenchman much the pleasanter the first night at dinner. But I may
