The English mistress was leaving and Laura should teach in her stead, unpaid, yet with board and lodging and free mornings in return. That, they promised, should arrange itself as Monsieur decided, Monsieur who, with a generosity that was like him, was throwing open his studio to Laura, asking no more of her than that she should help, when she could, those whose talent was less than her own. For Monsieur was of opinion that she had such talent as justified——and so on, until for sheer lack of breath they paused in delighted anticipation of her delight. Of course she was grateful, touched and grateful. A week earlier, so kind had Paris grown, so far at times her England, she might even have been tempted. But with Mrs. Cloud’s letter tucked away in her blouse, the words that were rung in her ears, ‘career,’ ‘success,’ ‘ambition,’ ‘future,’ could not convey their meaning, died away again as words, mere words. But it was kind of them—most extraordinarily kind. She was glad (with her quick flush) that Monsieur thought she had talent—and of course it was a lovely idea—but—but—“You see—they have asked me—my friends—to go to Italy!” They did not seem to understand. “Italy! and my friends!” She tried to explain the situation calmly and decorously; but it was not easy: “My friends! and I haven’t seen them for two years! My _English_ friends! From my home! I’m to go to Italy—to Florence—Fra Angelico—Benozzo Gozzoli—six weeks—and perhaps Rome—with my friends—my English friends!” She was nearly crying with delight. And then, with quick compunction at their blank faces— “But you do understand how grateful I am? I simply hate leaving. You do understand?” The sisters assured her that they did understand. She should have her holiday, and her visit home, and then—she would come back? In two, three, four months, she would want to come back. Because a talent was a gift of God—and the school would be so proud—and, who knew, a picture in the _Salon_! Of course they understood. She should go. But afterwards—she would come back? She was bewildered by their solicitude. It was the first time in her life that affection had come to her unsought. Its display touched her (that they should actually be fond of her!) but it embarrassed her too. She could only smile and nod and thank them again and again, and promise to think over all they had said, and write to them from Italy. “She will come back,” said the sisters confidently, when at last Laura had escaped. “So young a thing—her holiday—natural enough! But the talent is there, as Monsieur says. And talent will out. She will come back.” Monsieur La Motte listened to them as he had listened to Laura, in silence. It was not until coffee had been served and drunk, and the dregs were cold in his cup, that he delivered himself. “She will not come back,” he decided with a sigh, as he rose to go. “You will see! In two months—you will see!” they consoled him sagaciously. “She will not come back.”