It's too dreadful for
words."

"Hush, you're not a judge. Here and there there is evidence of great
talent."

They had drawn up before a portrait, and poor Bulstrode caught his
breath with a groan:

"It's too awful! It's crime to encourage it."

Mrs. Falconer tried to lead him on.

"Well, this _is_ an unfortunate place to stop," she confessed. "That
portrait represents more tragedy than you can see."

"It couldn't," murmured Bulstrode.

"The poor girl who did it has struggled on here for two years, living
sometimes on a franc a day. Just fancy! She has been trying to get
orders so that she can stay on and study. Poor thing! The people who
are interested say that she's been near to desperation. She is awfully
proud, and won't take any assistance but orders. You can imagine
_they're_ not besieging her! She has come to her last cent, I believe,
and has to go home to Idaho."

"Let her go, my dear friend." Bulstrode was earnest. "It's the best
thing she could possibly do!"

His companion put her hand on his arm.

"Please be quiet," she implored. "There she is, standing over by the
door. That rather pretty girl with the disorderly blonde hair."

Bulstrode looked up--saw her--looked again, and exclaimed:

"Is _that_ the girl? Do you know her? Present me, will you?"

"Nonsense." She detained him. "How you go from hot to cold! _Why_
should you want to meet her, pray?"

"Oh," he evaded, "it's a curious study. I want to talk to her about
art, and if you don't present me I shall speak to her without an
introduction."

Not many moments later Bulstrode was cornered in a dingy little room,
where tea that tasted like the infusion of a haystack was being served.
He had skilfully disassociated Miss Laura Desprey from her Bohemian
companions and placed her on a little divan, before which, with a
teacup in his hand, he stood.

She wore the same dress, the same hat--and he did not doubt the same
shoes which characterized her miserable toilet when he had surprised
her childlike display of grief on a bench in the Bois. He had done
quite right in speaking to her, and he thanked his stars that she did
not in the least remember him.

He thought with kind humor: "No wonder she cries if she paints like
that!"

But it was not in a spirit of criticism that he bent his friendly eyes
on the Bohemian. He had the pleasure of seeing her plainly this time,
for the window back of her admitted a generous square