“An egg also?” asked Monsieur Marge from the doorstep where he sat with his pipe. “No? Then when you have finished a second cup of cocoa I shall show you my hive’ and my bee’ and my studio.” The latter proved to be a small, dingy, not too well-lighted building behind the rambling, whitewashed, red-roofed house. Here dusty canvases and dried tubes of paint, bits of old tapestry and ancient stretcher-frames were piled and presided over by two of those artist’s lay figures that resemble life-sized, wigless dolls. Monsieur Marge turned over the quaint old pictures to display them and Cynthia murmured appreciation, trying hard to find something to admire in each. But they were of such an ancient manner, of the “brown gravy” school, with shadows dead as brown paint and thick, lifeless color, that proper applause was difficult. “You know I paint in America too?” he asked her proudly. “Yes, Mrs. Brewster told me. Where was that?” “I live in Philadelphia fifteen years. That was before the war. Then I live in South America with my son, long time. Many Basque live in South America. Then I come home here, to my old farm I buy when I young man ... many year ago. That was before you were born.” He chuckled at his own age. “Long ago I paint those panorama for the World Fair in Chicago.” “Goodness! Did you? I’ve heard of them but never saw one.” “Yes, indeed. They be gre-e-a-t painting.” He spread his arms to indicate an immense canvas. “And figures modeled like life. I paint twelve of those. They go all round the country. Twelve Battle of Gettysburg, with men in uniform in the wheat field. Battle of Gettysburg, she was fought in a wheat field.” He chuckled again and sucked on his empty pipe. “We work all night, many night, on that to get her ready for the opening of the Fair. We were all French, the artists who work on her. But the day after the opening we close the doors again, take her down and paint again all night long.” “Oh, why?” cried Cynthia. “Because,” he grinned in cheerful toothlessness. “We have paint _French_ wheat field. Full of puppies. American wheat field have no puppies.” And he roared with laughter over the ancient jest. “Pup ...” for a moment Cynthia was puzzled. Then she too laughed. “Oh yes, _poppies!_” For all day yesterday she had admired the glorious silky red flowers blooming among the wheat beside the railway. “You want to paint this morning?” And, when Cynthia decided that she might as well start immediately, “Go down the road and then turn right, by the mill. That is near and pretty, and tomorrow you can go further. You have everything you want? Oil? Turpentine? Oh, you paint in the water color. That is pretty, too.”