They said, and of course thought, that there was nothing so charming as a French woman, particularly the Parisienne; but, except on one point, he was not entirely inclined to agree. This point was their dress. Their dress was delightful, their fashion was an art, and it had great, real charm. In whatever walk of life they were placed they were always exquisitely dressed. Nigel appreciated this sartorial gift, it was an art he understood and that amused, but weren't they on the whole--also in every walk of life--a little too much arranged, overdone, too much _maquillees_; weren't their faces too white, their lips too red, their hats too new? They knew how to put on their clothes to perfection, but he was not sure that he didn't prefer these beautiful clothes not quite so well put on; he thought he liked to see the pretty French dress put on a little wrong on a pretty Englishwoman; and then he thought of Bertha, of course. Nowhere in Paris was there anything quite like Bertha, that pink and white English complexion, that abundant fair hair, the natural flower-like look. Of course Bertha was unusually clever, lively and charming; she was not stiff or prim, she was very exceptional, but distinctly English, and he admired her more than all the Parisiennes in the world. Besides, he thought, one got very tired of them. When they _were bourgeoises_ they were so extremely _bourgeoises_; when they were smart they were so excessively _snob_. Perhaps it was through having seen a good deal of them for a little while that he met a compatriot of his with unexpected gratification. * * * * * He was walking with one of his artist friends on 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.