fastened her wraps preparatory to departure. She
seemed quite oblivious to the fact that she had monopolized all the
conversation herself.

He turned politely to Miss Price, who murmured something about Julian's
being so badly ventilated, but gave him no clew as to her particular
branch of the profession. Miss Snell, however, supplied all details. It
seemed Miss Price was sharing Miss Snell's studio, having been sent over
by the Lynxville, Massachusetts, Sumner Prize Fund, for which she had
successfully competed, and which provided a meagre allowance for two
years' study abroad.

"She wants to paint heads," said Miss Snell; and in reply to a remark
about the great amount of study required to accomplish this desire,
surprised him by saying, "Oh, she only wants to paint them well enough
to teach, not well enough to sell."

"I'll drop in and see your work some afternoon," promised the Painter,
warmed by their evident intention of leaving; and he escorted them to
the landing, warning them against the dangerous steepness of his
stairway, which wound down in almost murky darkness.

Ten minutes later the centre panel of his door displayed a card bearing
these words: "At home only after six o'clock."

"I wonder I never thought of doing this before," he reflected, as he lit
a cigarette and strolled off to a neighboring restaurant; "I am always
out by that hour."

* * * * *

Several weeks elapsed before he saw Miss Price again, for he promptly
forgot his promise to visit her studio and inspect her work. His own
work was very absorbing just then, and the short winter days all too
brief for its accomplishment. He was struggling to complete the large
canvas that Miss Snell had so volubly admired during her visit, and it
really seemed to be progressing. But the weather changed suddenly from
frost to thaw, and he woke one morning to find little runnels of dirty
water coursing down his window and dismally dripping into the muddy
street below. It made him feel blue, and his big picture, which had
seemed so promising the day before, looked hopelessly bad in this new
mood. So he determined to take a day off, and, after his coffee,
strolled out into the Luxembourg Gardens. There the statues were green
with mouldy dampness, and the paths had somewhat the consistency of very
thin oatmeal porridge. Suddenly the sun came out brightly, and he found
a partially dry bench, where he sat down to brood upon the