THE AMERICAN
of several little smudges of colour, Valentin could now admire. "My painting is n't of interest."
"It's the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle," the young man gallantly returned.
She took up her shamefaced study and silently passed it to him. He looked at it, and in a moment she said: "I'm sure you're a great judge."
"Yes," he admitted; "I recognise merit."
"Only when it's there, I hope! I've given up," she bravely declared, "trying to have it."
He faced her, with a smile, over her demoralised little daub. "If one has n't one sort one can always have another."
She considered with downcast eyes—which, however, she presently raised. "We're talking of the sort of which you're a judge." Then, as to anticipate too obvious a rejoinder, she turned, for more urgent good manners, to Newman. "Where have you been all these months? You took those great journeys, you amused yourself well?"
"Oh yes," our hero returned—"always beaucoup, beaucoup!"
"Ah, so much the better." She spoke with charming unction and, having taken back her canvas from Valentin, who meanwhile had looked at his friend with eyes of rich meaning, began again to dabble in her colours. She was singularly pretty, with the look of serious sympathy she threw into her face. Tell me," she continued, "a little of all you've done."
"Oh, I went to Switzerland—to Geneva and Zermatt and Zürich and all those places, you know; and down to Venice, and all through Germany, and
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