“And you,” he said, “have seen studios?”
“Hundreds.”
“And models?”
“Millions.”
“And you know Bougereau?”
“Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and Dagnan and Courtois and—and all the rest of them!”
“And yet you say you are not an artist.”
“Pardon,” she said gravely, “did I say I was not?”
“Won't you tell me?” he hesitated.
At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat and now, with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain jet. A small boy dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying, “I won’t go home! I won’t go home!” His nurse raised her hands to Heaven.
“Just like a little American boy,” thought Hastings, and a pang of homesickness shot through him.
Presently the nurse captured the boat and the small boy stood at bay.
“Monsieur René, when you decide to come here you may have your boat.”
The boy backed away scowling.
“Give me my boat I say,” he cried, “and don’t call me René, for my name’s Randall and you know it!”
“Hello!” said Hastings,—“Randall?—that’s English.”
“I am American,” announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning to look at
