For several minutes the shadow and the mixing of it from her color box held her absorbed. Then an undue amount of chatter, even for a group of small French boys watching an American lady who made the _peinture_, caused her to glance up again. One of the American tourists had let the group go on without her and had come across to stand behind Cynthia. She was a tall girl, pretty, though pale, with big black eyes and curly dark lashes and a smart American traveling suit of blue and white wash silk. In a low tone she was chatting with the children and with such amazing ease and flourish of idiom that Cynthia, with a pang of envy thought; Canadian ... or Louisiana bred. She’s grown up with the language. Oh darn that model! “Look here,” she turned to address the visitor. “I wish you’d tell this little devil that I won’t pay him the two francs I’d promised him unless he sits still for ten more minutes. Then he can go. My vocabulary simply won’t stand the strain of putting that forcefully.” The girl laughed. She had a nice laugh thought Cynthia still slightly resentful of the interruption, then followed a stream of fluent French addressed to the model. “Mind if I watch?” she asked quietly, and Cynthia, again intent on the color of that shadow, muttered an absent-minded permission. Thereafter for the space of ten minutes there was peace. Along the old walls of Carcassonne, swimming in the golden haze of afternoon light, pigeons circled and cooed. From a not too distant watch tower came the nasal drone of the guide, explaining how, just here, the Black Prince had stormed the city and burned the tower. The air smelt of hot dust, sleepiness, and France, and Cynthia’s busy brush flew from palette to sketch and back again. Finally, she leaned back on her stool, squinted at the sketch with her head on one side, then looked up and nodded. “It’s finished I guess. I don’t know what you said to him, but it worked like a charm. Sorry I was rude.” “You weren’t rude. That’s a lovely painting, and a good likeness too. You’re American aren’t you? My name is Serena Grayson, from New Orleans.” Only she said “O’lean” in the prettiest manner imaginable. “I guessed it,” grinned Cynthia. “Staying in the Lower Town? Wait till I pay off this infant and we’ll walk down together.” “I should wait for Aunt Anna,” the girl hesitated. “Look here, let me have a piece of paper from your sketch book, will you? I’ll just scribble a note to tell her that I’ve gone on. She is shopping in the Cité, and started me out with that guide.” Serena made a little face of dislike. “I thought watching you would be more fun, so I deserted, but she’ll be looking for me when the tour is finished.”