utter
worthlessness of things in general and the Luxembourg statuary in
particular. The sunny facade of the palace glittered in the brightness.
One of his own pictures hung in its gallery. "It is bad," he said to
himself, "hopelessly bad," and he gloomily felt the strongest proof of
its worthlessness was its popularity with the public. He would probably
go on thinking this until the weather or his mood changed.

As his eyes strayed from the palace, he glanced up a long vista between
leafless trees and muddy grass-plats. A familiar figure in a battered
straw hat and scanty green cloak was advancing in his direction; the
wind, blowing back the fringe of disfiguring short hair, disclosed a
pure unbroken line of delicate profile, strangely simple, and recalling
the profiles in Botticelli's lovely fresco in the Louvre. Miss Price,
for it was she, carried a painting-box, and under one arm a stretcher
that gave her infinite trouble whenever the wind caught it. As she
passed, the Painter half started up to join her, but she gave him such a
cold nod that his intention was nipped in the bud. He felt snubbed, and
sank back on his bench, taking a malicious pleasure in observing that,
womanlike, she ploughed through all the deepest puddles in her path,
making great splashes about the hem of her skirt, that fluttered out
behind her as she walked, for her hands were filled, and she had no
means of holding it up.

The Painter resented his snubbing. He was used to the most humble
deference from the art students of the quarter, who hung upon his
slightest word, and were grateful for every stray crumb of his
attention.

He now lost what little interest he had previously taken in his
surroundings. Just before him in a large open space reserved for the
boys to play handball was a broken sheet of glistening water reflecting
the blue sky, the trees rattled their branches about in the wind, and
now and then a tardy leaf fluttered down from where it had clung
desperately late into the winter. The gardens were almost deserted. It
was too early for the throng of beribboned nurses and howling infants
who usually haunt its benches. One or two pedestrians hurried across the
garden, evidently taking the route to make shortcuts to their
destinations, and not for the pleasure of lounging among its blustery
attractions.

After idling an hour on his bench, he went to breakfast with a friend
who chanced to live conveniently near, and where he made h