onsieur!"

"Because of my spoiled picture?" Waywardness flickered up momentarily.

"No, monsieur!"

"Then why?"

Jacqueline glanced up swiftly, then dropped her eyes.

"Because, monsieur--being but a woman--I say to myself 'life is long,
and other pictures may be painted; but with love--or friendship--'"

"Mademoiselle, that is sufficient! You are charming--you are
sympathetic--- but, like many others, you place too great a value upon
those words 'love' and 'friendship.' It is like this! If I quarrel with
my friend it is doubtless sad, but it only affects myself; if, on the
contrary, I paint a bad picture I am making a blot upon a beautiful
world!"

"And what of the heart, monsieur? May there not be sad stains upon the
heart--even if no eyes see them?"

"Now, mademoiselle, you are talking sentiment!"

"And you, monsieur, are materialistic?" For a second a flash of mischief
showed in the blue eyes.

Max stiffened his shoulders; made brave show to hide the detestable ache
in his soul.

"Yes, mademoiselle," he said. "I think, without pride, I may claim to
see life wholly, without idealization."

Quite unexpectedly Jacqueline clapped her hands and laughed, stepping
close to him with an engaging air of mystery.

"Then all is well! I have a physic for all your ills!"

He looked distrustful.

"A physic?"

"This, monsieur--that you put aside the great sorrow of your picture,
and the little sorrow of your friend--and step across and partake of
_dejeuner_ with Lucien and me. A very special _dejeuner_, I assure you;
no less than a _poulet bonne femme_, cooked with a care--"

She threw out her hands in an ecstasy of expression, a portrayal of the
artless greed that had more than once brought a smile to the boy's lips.
But this time no amusement was called up; disgust rose strong within
him and, accompanying it, a certainty that were Jacqueline's chicken to
be laid before him, he must assuredly choke with the first morsel. One
does not eat when one has failed in one's art--or quarrelled with one's
best friend!

"Mademoiselle," he said, unsteadily, "you are kind--and I am not without
appreciation. But to-day I have no appetite--food does not call to me.
Doubtless, there are days when M. Cartel cannot eat." He strove to force
a laugh.

Jacqueline looked humorously grave.

"When Lucien cannot work, monsieur, he eats the more! It is only on the
days when work flows from him that I am compelled to drag him to t