he form of romance, made in France."

"Oh, but that is exceedingly interesting."

"You would only find the rather crude analysis of a--a disagreeable
girl."

"You think _I_ am like a disagreeable girl, then!" said Miss Jones,
still laughing. "From the first I have had a bit of a grudge against you
for finding me so suitable. I am sure I am not vain."

"Manon was more than vain. She was heartless, a liar." I felt myself
stumbling from bad to worse. "Not in the least like you in anything,
except that she was beautiful." My explanation, with this bald piece of
tasteless flattery, had hardly helped matters. Indeed, Miss Jones became
rather coldly silent. I painted on, my mind in a disturbing whirl of
conjecture. I felt convinced that I had merely whetted her curiosity and
that she would go straight home to the perusal of "Manon"; and to
expect from her the faintest literary appreciation of the distinction
and the delicacy of the book was hopeless. She would fasten with horror
on the brazen immorality of a character she had been chosen to embody.
The blood surged up to my head as I painted.

As Miss Jones was preparing to go, I held out my hand.

"Good-bye," I said, feeling very badly.

"Good-bye? Am I not coming to-morrow?" She had paused in the act of
neatly folding her umbrella, which had been thoughtfully left open to
dry while she posed. It had now stopped raining.

"Yes--yes, of course," I stammered.

She secured the elastic band, and then looked at me.

"Miss Jones," I blurted out, abruptly, "don't read 'Manon Lescaut';
please don't."

Her glance became severely penetrating:

"I really don't understand you," she said, and then added: "I most
certainly shall read it."

"Well, if you do"--my urgent tone delayed her going--"try to judge it
from an artistic standpoint, you know. A study--a type. Don't
apply--ah--_modern_ standards."

"I shall apply _my_ standards. I know no other method of judging a
book."

"Well, then,"--my manner was becoming pitiful--"remember that the
physical resemblance between you was merely in my imagination."

"I have always believed the face indicative of the character, and I'm
sorry that mine should have suggested to you the character of a liar,"
said Miss Jones. It was evident that already she was hurt and,
disregarding my reiterated "It did not! It did not! upon my honour," she
opened the door to go. I still detained her.

"Miss Jones," I said, standing before her, "I kn