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replied they were, more or less, 'impressionists.' Her brother's studio was next to hers; he often looked in to see how her work was getting on, and gave her some hints. I asked if she liked the pension. To my surprise, she replied, 'Very much.' I said nothing, but wondered. Then she added, 'You can't expect every one to be nice in a place like this. Some of them are bad enough.' By this time we were in the street. She took me to a colour-man, where I bought all my materials, and then on to her atelier. Her work was curious; I can't say I thought it good. It represented a girl's back, seen apparently through a fog, with very crude green and violeť shadows, which (perhaps my vision is at fault) I do not see in nature. By-and-by the model arrived, and there was the back. Well, the back did not look to me violet. There was plenty of red and yellow in it, but my eyes refused to see the violet and green. I felt depressed. If it should turn out that Monsieur D——— expected his pupils to see nature like that, I knew I couldn't do it. I thought of Titian, of Velasquez. I wondered whether I should not do better to copy certain portraits in the Louvre, which I well remembered. But to work straight from nature was more congenial to me than to try to imitate the work of even the greatest men; so I resolved to make a study of the girl's head—I would leave her back alone. When the model had left, Miss Baring produced three cups and an Etna, and said she was going to make tea. As soon as the water boiled, she left the room, and rapped with her maul-stick at the door of the adjoining atelier. This was an understood signal; a few minutes later her brother