cates it horribly, for it implies the intervention of mind."
"Mind intervened between the time of the dream and the time of the painting, but at the moment of painting, mind was banished, and the senses were in full charge."
Don't kid yourself, Grover was vulgarly thinking, but put his thought into politer words: "That's hard to grasp."
"Don't grasp it, mon petit. Instead let's join our cherished Léon, who is bored with us for disagreeing with him, and drop all this useless chatter. Let's see what the slave brought us."
"Cognac and cointreau," Vaudreuil informed him. "Shall I pour it?"
"Some cognac," said Casimir. "Three doubles. And let Rosalie take the cointreau upstairs to the low-lived duchesses. We'll drink to the friendship of the little American who knows nothing about painting!"
In Grover's mind was the echo of a phrase which made him homesick. He saw Sophie Scantleberry's white little face against the Chinese wallpaper of the inn at Concord. "You've seen so little," she was saying, "yet you see so well." A rather pathetic accomplishment.
"I knew you would get on, you two," said Vaudreuil, and Grover was shocked to find himself disliking Vaudreuil for something veiled and calculating be-
