himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance?
His pleasant serious face questioned hers.
“Tiens,” she thought, “what a droll man.”
“You surely study art?” he said.
She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him. “Why do you think so?”
“Because you speak as if you did.”
“You are making fun of me,” she said, “and it is not good taste.”
She stopped confused, as he colored to the roots of his hair.
“How long have you been in Paris?” she said at length.
“Three days,” he replied gravely.
“But—but—surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!”
Then after a pause, “Really are you a nouveau?”
“I am,” he said.
She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and tilting her parasol over her small head looked at him.
“I don’t believe it.”
He felt the compliment, and for a moment. hesitated to declare himself one of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new and green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open very wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles.
“You have never seen a studio?”
“Never.”
“Nor a model?”
“No.”
“How funny,” she said solemnly. Then they both laughed.
