THE AMERICAN
a negation of underbred surprise. She turned to her generous patron, putting up her hands to her hair and smoothing its delicately-felt roughness. Then, rapidly, she turned the canvas that graced her easel over on its face. "You've not forgotten me?"
"I shall never forget you. You may be sure of that."
"Oh," she protested, "there are a great many different ways of remembering a person." And she looked straight at the Comte de Bellegarde, who was looking at her as a gentleman may when a verdict is expected of him.
"Have you painted me a pretty picture?" Newman went on. "Have you shown beaucoup d'industrie?"
"No, I've done nothing." And, taking up her palette, she began to mix her colours at random.
"But your father tells me your attendance has been regular."
"I've nowhere else to go! Where do you suppose, cher monsieur—? Here, all summer, one could breathe at least."
"Being here then," said Newman, "don't you think you might have tried something?"
"I told you before," she sweetly answered, "that I have n't the advantage of knowing how to paint."
"But you've something of interest on your easel now," Valentin gaily objected, "if you 'd only let me see it."
She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the back of the canvas—those hands which Newman had called pretty and which, in spite
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