“Well, I’ll take my easel and my paints along too.” She looked at him seriously. “You are an artist—I heard that from the concierge.” “Yes,” said Gethryn, “I think I may claim the title tonight.” And then he told her about the Salon. She listened and brightened with sympathy. Then she grew silent. “Do you paint landscapes?” “Figures,” said the young man, shortly. “From models?” “Of course,” he answered, still more drily. “Draped,” she persisted. “No.” “I hate models!” she cried out, almost fiercely. “They are not a pleasing set, as a rule,” he admitted. “But I know some decent ones.” She shivered and shook her curly head. “Some are very pretty, I suppose.” “Some.” “Do you know Sarah Brown?” “Yes, I know Sarah.” “Men go wild about her.” “I never did.” Yvonne was out of humor. “Oh,” she cried, petulantly, “you are very cold—you Americans—like ice.” “Because we don’t run after Sarah?” “Because you are a nation of business, and—” “And brains,” said Gethryn, drily. There was an uncomfortable pause. Gethryn looked at the girl. She lay with her face turned from him. “Hélène!” No answer. “Yvonne—Mademoiselle!” No answer. “It’s two o’clock.” A slight impatient movement of the head. “Good night.” Gethryn rose. “Good night,” he repeated. He waited for a moment. “Good night, Yvonne,” he said, for the third time. She turned slowly toward him, and as he looked down at her he felt a tenderness as for a sick child. “Good night,” he said once more, and, bending over her, gently laid the little gold clasp in her open hand. She looked at it in surprise; then suddenly she leaned swiftly toward him, rested a brief second against him, and then sank back again. The golden fleur-de-lis glittered over his heart. “You will wear it?” she whispered. “Yes.” “Then—good night.” Half unconsciously he stooped and kissed her forehead; then went his way. And all that night one slept until the morning broke, and one saw morning break, then fell asleep. CHAPTER VI. It was the first day of June. In the Luxembourg Gardens a soft breeze stirred the tender chestnut leaves, and blew sparkling ripples across the water in the Fountain of Marie de Medicis. The modest little hothouse flowers had quite recovered from the shock of recent transplanting and were ambitiously pushing out long spikes and clusters of crimson, purple and gold, filling the air with spicy perfume, and drawing an occasional battered butterfly, gaunt and seedy, from his long winter’s sleep, but still remembering the flowery days of last season’s brilliant debut. Through the fresh young leaves the sunshine fell, dappling the glades and thickets, bathing the gray walls of the Palais du Sénat, and almost warming into life the queer old statues of long departed royalty, which for so many years have looked down from the great terrace to the Palace of the King.