convince him that she was right, that she must judge
accurately with the intelligent observation of an experienced Parisian.
He forgot, so desirous was he to reassure himself, that for at least
twelve years he had justly reproached her for too much admiring the
dainty trifles, the elegant nothings, the sentimentalities and nameless
trivialities of the passing fancy of the day, and never art, art alone,
art detached from the popular ideas, tendencies, and prejudices.

"Let us go on," said he, drawing them away from his picture. He led them
for a long time from gallery to gallery, showing them notable canvases
and explaining their subjects, happy to be with them.

"What time is it?" the Countess asked suddenly.

"Half after twelve."

"Oh, let us hasten to luncheon then. The Duchess must be waiting for us
at Ledoyen's, where she charged me to bring you, in case we should not
meet her in the galleries."

The restaurant, in the midst of a little island of trees and shrubs,
seemed like an overflowing hive. A confused hum of voices, calls, the
rattling of plates and glasses came from the open windows and large
doors. The tables, set close together and filled with people eating,
extended in long rows right and left of a narrow passage, up and down
which ran the distracted waiters, holding along their arms dishes filled
with meats, fish, or fruit.

Under the circular gallery there was such a throng of men and women as
to suggest a living pate. Everyone there laughed, called out, drank and
ate, enlivened by the wines and inundated by one of those waves of joy
that sweep over Paris, on certain days, with the sunshine.

An attendant showed the Countess, Annette, and Bertin upstairs into
a reserved room, where the Duchess awaited them. As they entered, the
painter observed, beside his aunt, the Marquis de Farandal, attentive
and smiling, and extending his hand to receive the parasols and wraps of
the Countess and her daughter. He felt again so much displeasure that he
suddenly desired to say rude and irritating things.

The Duchess explained the meeting of her nephew and the departure of
Musadieu, who had been carried off by the Minister of the Fine Arts, and
Bertin, at the thought that this insipidly good-looking Marquis might
marry Annette, that he had come there only to see her, and that he
regarded her already as destined to share his bed, unnerved and revolted
him, as if some one had ignored his own rights--sacred and m