the boulevard when, to
his great surprise, the artist was stopped by a young lady walking alone
who evidently knew him. She was dressed in a very tight blue serge coat
and skirt, she had black bandeaux of hair over her ears, from which
depended imitation coral ear-rings. She had shoes with white spats, and
a very small hat squashed over her eyes. She did not look in the least
French. He knew her at once. It was the girl whose artistic education
Rupert had at one time undertaken. It was Moona Chivvey.

"Ah! Miss Chivvey! What a pleasure! And what are you doing here?"

She replied that she and her friend, Mimsie Sutton, had taken a little
studio and were studying art together with a number of other English
and American girls with a great artist.

Nigel's friend left his arm and went away. Nigel strolled on with Miss
Chivvey.

"And are you here quite alone with no chaperon," asked Nigel, with that
momentary sort of brotherly feeling of being shocked that an Englishman
nearly always feels when he sees a compatriot behaving unconventionally
in a foreign land.

"Chaperon! Oh! come off the roof," replied the young lady in her
boisterous manner, which he saw had not at all toned down. "Of course
I'm being chaperoned by Miss Sutton. I'm staying with Mimsie. Mother
couldn't come, and didn't want me to come, but there's no hope of
learning art in London; it's simply _hopeless_. You see we're serious,
Mr. Hillier, we're studying really hard. We're going to do big things.
Mimsie's a genius. I'm not; but I'm industrious. I'm a tremendous
worker. Oh, I shall do something yet!"

She was full of fire and enthusiasm, and continued to give him an
immense quantity of information. He listened with interest and thought
it rather touching. Of course she was genuine and believed in herself;
equally, of course, she had no sort of talent. She was in a position in
which no girl in her own class could be placed who was not English,
except an American, and then it wouldn't be the same thing. No doubt she
knew thoroughly well how to take care of herself, and most likely there
was no need, even, that she should. Still, he thought it was rather
pathetic that she should leave her parents and a thoroughly comfortable
home in Camden Hill, in order to live in a wretchedly uncomfortable
studio--he was sure it was wretchedly uncomfortable--and have a dull
life with other depressing girls--all for the cultivation of a gift that
was purely imaginary.