and derbies, and a smart world of pedestrians generally impressed me greatly. It was lovely. The wonder of Paris, as I was discovering, was that, walk where you would, it was hard to escape the sense of breadth, space, art, history, romance and a lovely sense of lightness and enthusiasm for life. Miss N.’s studio is in the Rue Deñfert-Rochereau. In calling here I had my first taste of the Paris concierge, the janitress who has an eye on all those who come and go and to whom all not having keys must apply. In many cases, as I learned, keys are not given to the outer gate or door. One must ring and be admitted. This gives this person a complete espionage over the affairs of all the tenants, mail, groceries, guests, purchases, messages--anything and everything. If you have a charming concierge, it is well and good; if not, not. The thought of anything so offensive as a spying concierge irritated me greatly and I found myself running forward in my mind picking fights with some possible concierge who might at some remote date possibly trouble me. Of such is the contentious disposition. The studio of Mr. McG., in the Boulevard Raspail, overlooks a lovely garden--a heavenly place set with trees and flowers and reminiscent of an older day in the bits of broken stone-work lying about, and suggesting the architecture of a bygone period. His windows, reaching from floor to ceiling and supplemented by exterior balconies, were overhung by trees. In both studios were scores of canvases done in the neo-impressionistic style which interested me profoundly. It is one thing to see neo-impressionism hung upon the walls of a gallery in London, or disputed over in a West End residence. It is quite another to come upon it fresh from the easel in the studio of the artist, or still in process of production, defended by every thought and principle of which the artist is capable. In Miss N.’s studio were a series of decorative canvases intended for the walls of a great department store in America which were done in the raw reds, yellows, blues and greens of the neo-impressionist cult--flowers which stood out with the coarse distinctness of hollyhocks and sunflowers; architectural outlines which were as sharp as those of rough buildings, and men and women whose details of dress and feature were characterized by colors which by the uncultivated eye would be pronounced unnatural. For me they had an immense appeal if for nothing more than that they represented a development and an individual point of view. It is so hard to break tradition. It was the same in the studio of Mr. McG. to which we journeyed after some three-quarters of an hour. Of the two painters, the man seemed to me the more forceful. Miss N. worked in a softer mood, with more of what might be called an emotional attitude towards life.