say, I hope very much that I may be able to return in the winter. I would certainly do so"—he looked her full in the face—"if I knew that my presence here again would not be thought objectionable by you."
It shot through Elizabeth's mind as he spoke, "Here is a man who, in his own calm, unimpassioned way, cares something for me. It may not be much. It will not give him a heartache, probably. But at least the care is not mercenary." She said aloud—
"If you should return to Paris, and that I am here, Mr. George, I shall be glad to see you."
"You will count me, then, among your friends? "
"I don't know you well enough as yet to call you a friend. It means so much, and I am slow to make new ones."
"I hope I may become one in time. I shall not despair. What is your scheme of life—if you have one?"
"I have none at present. The next few months will decide whether I have enough talent to make painting my profession."
He checked the rejoinder, and the smile that played about his mouth.
"Painting," he said, "is a willing slave, a hard taskmaster."
"I had rather have any master, than drift through life idle and purposeless."
"Need you drift 'purposeless' in England? Have you no wish ever to make your home there?"
"Perhaps, by-and-by—a long time hence. At present I hate the thought of England." Then turning suddenly,
