in to the canvas in an amused, secret fashion comprehensible to
herself alone.

"You feel like my poor Lucien, when an interruption offers itself to his
work; but, as I say, _ennui_ is the price of admiration! Is it not so,
Monsieur Max?"

She leaned her blonde head to one side, and looked at him with the naive
quality of meditation that so became her.

"Do not permit me to disturb you, monsieur! Continue working."

"Thank you, mademoiselle!" A flicker of irony was observable in the tone
and, with exaggerated zeal, he returned to his task.

The girl came softly behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"What is the picture to be, monsieur?"

"It is an idea caught last night in a _cabaret_. It would not interest
you."

"And why not?"

Max shrugged his shoulders, and went on blocking in his picture.

"Because it is a psychological study--a side-issue of existence.
Nothing to do with the crude facts of life."

"Oh!" Jacqueline drew in her breath softly. "I am only interested, then,
in the crude facts? How do you arrive at that conclusion, monsieur?"

"By observation, mademoiselle."

"And what have you observed?"

"It is difficult to say--in words. In a picture I would put it like
this--a blue sky, a meadow of rank green grass, a stream full of
forget-me-nots, and a girl bending over it, with eyes the color of the
flowers. Conventionality would compel me to call it _Spring_ or
_Youth_!" He spoke fast and he spoke contemptuously.

She watched him, her head still characteristically drooping, the little
wise smile hovering about her lips.

"I comprehend!" she murmured to herself. "Monsieur is very worldly-wise.
Monsieur has discovered that there is--how shall I say?--less atmosphere
in a blue sky than in a gray one?"

Max glanced round at her. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was
being laughed at, but her clear azure eyes met his innocently, and her
mouth was guiltless of smiles.

"I have had a sufficiency of blue sky," he said, and returned to his
work.

"One is liable to think that, monsieur, until the rain falls!"

"So you doubt the endurance of my philosophy?"

She shrugged; she extended her pretty hands expressively.

"Monsieur is young!"

The words exasperated Max. Again it had arisen--the old argument. The
anger smouldering in his heart since the girl's invasion flamed to
speech.

"I could wish that the world was less ready with that opinion,
mademoiselle! It knows very little of wh