ysterious
rights.

As soon as they were at table, the Marquis, who sat beside the young
girl, occupied himself in talking to her with the devoted air of a man
authorized to pay his addresses.

He assumed a curious manner, which seemed to the painter bold and
searching; his smiles were satisfied and almost tender, his gallantry
was familiar and officious. In manner and word appeared already
something of decision, as if he were about to announce that he had won
the prize.

The Duchess and the Countess seemed to protect and approve this attitude
of a pretender, and exchanged glances of complicity.

As soon as the luncheon was finished the party returned to the
Exposition. There was such a dense crowd in the galleries, it seemed
impossible to penetrate it. An odor of perspiring humanity, a stale
smell of old gowns and coats, made an atmosphere at once heavy and
sickening. No one looked at the pictures any more, but at faces and
toilets, seeking out well-known persons; and at times came a great
jostling of the crowd as it was forced to give way before the high
double ladder of the varnishers, who cried: "Make way, Messieurs! Make
way, Mesdames!"

At the end of ten minutes, the Countess and Olivier found themselves
separated from the others. He wished to find them immediately, but,
leaning upon him, the Countess said: "Are we not very well off as it
is? Let them go, since it is quite natural that we should lose sight of
them; we will meet them again in the buffet at four o'clock."

"That is true," he replied.

But he was absorbed by the idea that the Marquis was accompanying
Annette and continuing his attempts to please her by his fatuous and
affected gallantry.

"You love me always, then?" murmured the Countess.

"Yes, certainly," he replied, with a preoccupied air, trying to catch a
glimpse of the Marquis's gray hat over the heads of the crowd.

Feeling that he was abstracted, and wishing to lead him back to her own
train of thought, the Countess continued:

"If you only knew how I adore your picture of this year! It is certainly
your _chef-d'oeuvre_."

He smiled, suddenly, forgetting the young people in remembering his
anxiety of the morning.

"Do you really think so?" he asked.

"Yes, I prefer it above all others."

With artful wheedling, she crowned him anew, having known well for a
long time that nothing has a stronger effect on an artist than tender
and continuous flattery. Captivated, reanimated,