Was this Oliver? She could not see his face, but she thought it probable. He was young, and though his clothes were Latin Quarter French, he wore them like an Englishman, an Englishman pretending that he was not in fancy dress. She drew nearer. She was herself too hardened to an audience to be chary of watching him, but she was amused and faintly contemptuous when she saw how instantly he was embarrassed. He had been absorbed in his work, his good work, as she critically admitted. Justin was right—the man could paint. She had never seen a better copy, unless, indeed, it had too vigorous a life of its own. She sympathized. This was no commission. She guessed him a penitent, at her own trick of subduing the artistic flesh. She observed that he had pet brushes. If this were Oliver, she might like him after all.... And then, as I told you, he became aware of her, and began, like any child, to show off. He did not turn: he remained elaborately unconscious; but he intensified himself. She could not help laughing. The breathless pause, the poised brush, the accurate dab, the hasty retreat and long absorbed stare, the frantic rattle through his paint-box for the unnecessary tube, it was all familiar comedy: she had played it herself in her first nervous week at the Louvre. But he, at twenty-five—if he were Oliver he must be quite twenty-five—could not possibly be nervous any more.... It was pose, pure pose, very funny to watch.... So that was Oliver! She shrugged her shoulders and strolled on. She would, perhaps, have had her expressive mouth more under control had she realized that a dark canvas and a sheet of glass are an excellent substitute for a mirror. She glanced at her watch. She and Justin had their established rendezvous, but it was early yet. If this were Oliver, Justin and his mother would find him sooner or later.... It would have saved time if Oliver had had the sense to say what he was copying.... Justin, with an indulgent smile, had said that the omission was just like Oliver—“Head in the clouds as usual. You know what these geniuses are.” Genius!... What would Justin have said if any one else had sent them trapesing up and down these endless rooms? She, Laura, did not mind for herself, of course, but poor Mrs. Cloud would be done up.... Even she was not sorry to rest for a moment.... She sat down thankfully on a student’s deserted stool. It was a warm, lax day and she was, in truth, a little dazed and overborne by the bright colours and echoing rooms and the familiar, indescribable odour that is the breath of painted pictures, crowded hundreds of pictures, hundreds of years old. She had only to shut her eyes to be in Paris ... in her painting apron.... She shut them.