“He has come to thank the American lady,” explained M. Marge after a moment’s conversation and added that he had told M. Yturbe that Thomasina was to keep the clock for herself. “After all, we have no grandchildren ourselves.” And a moment later he translated again, “He asks if the American lady will do him a portrait of his little one; he will of course be proud to pay for it.” “I’d adore it,” cried Cynthia, “Oh, what a day!” The men moved off together, talking. Cynthia saw them cross the road slowly, two old men together. Madame, chuckling richly, made one of her rare remarks in English: “They not be back till late.” But she seemed more pleased than concerned. “I guess that means M. Marge has become all Basque at last,” thought Cynthia sleepily. CHAPTER 6 _Carcassonne_ ROMANCE IN CARCASSONNE Cynthia had long ago learned how to say in French “Stand still. Turn a little to the right ... to the left. Raise the chin please.” And finally and most urgent, again “stand still!” One needed these phrases constantly in the one language the model understood. She had had occasion to use them all, and more besides, this afternoon, for the ragged little urchin, posing against a background of old stone house and carved fourteenth century doorway, was an imp, though a delightful one, and had far too large a circle of friends vitally interested in what he was doing. Cynthia glanced up from her painting and for the twentieth time in ten minutes sighed in exasperation. Every small child’s head, including of course the model’s, had turned to watch the small group crossing the square. It was just the usual collection of American tourists; every child in the city must have seen their like hundreds of times, herded by the Carcassonne guide--an old _mutilé_ of the Great War. Cynthia herself had twice been round the wonderful old walls with him, so she knew quite well what the others were about to hear; of the ancient old towers, fifty of them, and the ramparts dating back and back to the tenth century, the foundations older even than that, for the Romans had held a fortress here; of the lovely little cathedral of Saint Nazaire, set like a jewel in the heart of the town; all these and more would the visiting Americans see. The small model and his friends must know by heart every syllable of the guide’s lecture, every stone of the city by now. So why need they turn, like a group of little monkeys, just because someone had crossed the square! “Oh _do_ sit still!” she muttered crossly in French. The sketch was a good one, the best she had made this week. Now if she could get just the right hue of the shadow on his shoulder. ...