certain levity
disturbed her. Suddenly she stopped. She had reached a less frequented
room; there was a single easel at one side, but the stool before it was
empty, and its late occupant was standing in a recess by the window,
with his back towards her. He had drawn a silk handkerchief from
his pocket. She recognized his square shoulders, she recognized the
handkerchief, and as he unrolled it she recognized the fragments of her
morning's breakfast as he began to eat them. It was the one-armed man.

She remained so motionless and breathless that he finished his scant
meal without noticing her, and even resumed his place before the easel
without being aware of her presence. The noise of approaching feet
gave a fresh impulse to her own, and she moved towards him. But he was
evidently accustomed to these interruptions, and worked on steadily
without turning his head. As the other footsteps passed her she was
emboldened to take a position behind him and glance at his work. It
was an architectural study of one of Canaletto's palaces. Even her
inexperienced eyes were struck with its vigor and fidelity. But she was
also conscious of a sense of disappointment. Why was he not--like the
others--copying one of the masterpieces? Becoming at last aware of
a motionless woman behind him, he rose, and with a slight gesture of
courtesy and a half-hesitating "Vous verrez mieux la, mademoiselle,"
moved to one side.

"Thank you," said Miss Maynard in English, "but I did not want to
disturb you."

He glanced quickly at her face for the first time. "Ah, you are
English!" he said.

"No. I am American."

His face lightened. "So am I."

"I thought so," she said.

"From my bad French?"

"No. Because you did not look up to see if the woman you were polite to
was old or young."

He smiled. "And you, mademoiselle,--you did not murmur a compliment to
the copy over the artist's back."

She smiled, too, yet with a little pang over the bread. But she was
relieved to see that he evidently had not recognized her. "You are
modest," she said; "you do not attempt masterpieces."

"Oh, no! The giants like Titian and Corregio must be served with both
hands. I have only one," he said half lightly, half sadly.

"But you have been a soldier," she said with quick intuition.

"Not much. Only during our war,--until I was compelled to handle nothing
larger than a palette knife. Then I came home to New York, and, as I was
no use there, I came here to