l have to go home," sobbed Miss Snell, but said: "I am forced to
admit that Cora has wasted a good deal of time this summer. She is so
young, and needs a little distraction, now and then," and she appealed
to the Painter for confirmation of this undoubted fact.

He was absent-minded, but assented to all she said. In his heart he
thought it a fortunate thing that the prize fund should be withdrawn.
One female art student the less: he grew pleased with the idea. Cora had
ceased to interest him as an individual, and he considered her only as
one of an obnoxious class.

"I thought you ought to be the first to know about it," said Miss Snell,
confidentially, "because you might have some plan for keeping her over
here." Miss Snell looked unutterable things that she did not dare to put
into words.

She made the Painter feel uncomfortable, she looked so knowing, and he
became loud in his advice to send Cora home at once.

"Pack her off," he cried. "She is wasting time and money by staying. She
never had a particle of talent, and the sooner she goes back to
Lynxville the better."

Miss Snell shrank from his vehemence, and wished she had not insisted
upon coming to consult him. She had assured Cora that the merest hint
would bring matters to a crisis. Cora would imagine that she had bungled
matters terribly, and she was mortified at the thought of returning with
the news of a repulse.

As soon as she had gone, the Painter felt sorry he had been so hasty. He
had bundled her unceremoniously out of the studio, pleading important
work.

He called twice in the rue Notre Dame des Champs, but the porter would
never let him pass her lodge, and he at last realized that she had been
given orders to that effect. A judicious tip extracted from her the fact
that Miss Price expected to leave for America the following Saturday,
and, armed with an immense bouquet, he betook himself to the St. Lazare
station at the hour for the departure of the Havre express.

He arrived with only a minute to spare before the guard's whistle was
answered by the mosquitolike pipe that sets the train in motion.

The Botticelli profile was very haughty and cold. Miss Snell was there,
of course, bathed in tears. He had just time enough to hand in his huge
bouquet through the open window before the train started. He caught one
glimpse of an angry face within, when suddenly his great nosegay came
flying out of the compartment, and striking him full in the fac