The cat rubbed, purring, about the table, and a small boy with eyes as softly dark as the cat’s fur, and clad in a diminutive smock of black, with a small black beret perched on his dark curls came out to stare solemnly at this stranger. Cynthia buttered a piece of roll, and offered it to him. With a shy, “_Merci!_” muttered in an oddly deep voice he took it, bolted it, and watched for the next mouthful. Cynthia grinned at him, ate a bit herself and gave him, thereafter, alternate bites. By the time two rolls were finished, and the big pitcher of hot chocolate was drained to the last sweet drop, the small boy had smiled also, had told her that his name was Nono, and that he lived here. Here at last was a friend. Tomorrow she’d bring a sketchbook to breakfast. When tomorrow came Nono appeared, along with his black cat, for more bits of warm roll. But this time he smiled immediately, crinkling his dark eyes with an amused and delightful welcome. When his father brought the chocolate, he said something in brief reproof, but Cynthia protested. “Let him stay,” she begged and displayed her sketchbook. The man grinned and nodded. He knew about artists, and explained to the boy that he must sit still for mademoiselle. Whereat Nono climbed into one of the café chairs, and grasping firm hold of the huge and somewhat reluctant cat, proceeded to demonstrate that he was born to be an artist’s model. Oh, this was glorious. Cynthia’s fingers flew to get it all down before it could dissolve, and when the cat finally went calmly to sleep, Nono continued to sit immovable, wide eyed, minutes on minutes. Cynthia got more and more thrilled. It was going to be a honey of a sketch. She wondered if, maybe, colors tomorrow. ... At last she nodded to the child. He laughed and stretched, and dumped the sleeping cat from his knees. Cynthia put two francs in his small hand. Was that, she wondered, too much, or too little? It was what her breakfast had cost her. Apparently, by his reception, it was all right. “Tomorrow?” she asked in French, and pointed toward the chair again. “_Oui, oui, Demain_,” agreed Nono. Then he must know that artists sometimes wanted one to pose again. That was on Sunday. Saturday had not been strikingly successful. For some reason, perhaps because it was Saturday, everything, banks and the Express Company, Mr. Culbert’s office and most of the museums Cynthia wished to visit, had been closed. Monday, of course, they would be open again, and she could get in touch with Mr. Culbert. Cynthia’s money was running low and she must ask for an advance on the first cover, and must find some way to get in touch with models to work from.