She rose from her chair. "I will take a carriage," she said, "and fetch my things." "Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then," he decided. "I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself--pray don't look like that. It is a very small affair, after all, and you can pay me back if you will." She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive movement. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. "I cannot thank you, Sir John," she said. "I shall never be able to thank you." "Won't you postpone the attempt, then?" he said gallantly, "until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget--seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes." She drove off in a little _fiacre_, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. "Hotel Ritz," he said mechanically to the coachman. "If only her sister is half as pretty, no wonder that she has set the Parisians talking." _Chapter II_ THE ADVENTURE OF ANNABEL The man spoke mercilessly, incisively, as a surgeon. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands. "You have the temperament," he said. "You have the ideas. Your first treatment of a subject is always correct, always suggestive. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist's equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. We have both tried hard to develop it--you and I--and we have failed. It is better to face the truth." "Much better," she agreed. "Oh, much better." "Personally," he went on, "I must confess to a great disappointment. I looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. I said to myself, 'this will come.' It seems that I was mistaken. You cannot draw. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl's. You will never be able to draw. You have the ideas. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. Take my advice. Burn your palette and your easel. Give up your lonely hours of work here. Look somewhere else in life. Depend upon it, there is a place for you--waiting. Here you only waste your time." She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. He drew a little breath of relief. The worst was over now. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately.