of Billings, and of the question whether the want of modelling in Simmons's nose had anything to do with his style of snoring; of the overrated colouring of some of those Venetian fellows; of the delicacy of Mino da Fiesole, and of the genius of Babson's tailor. Babson was there to defend the cut of his trousers, and Billings and Simmons were present to answer for themselves at the expense of the pictures of those who had called their habits and features into question. When it came to this all the voices joined in jolly uproar. Derision and denial broke out of the tumult, and presently they were all talking quietly of a reception which some of them were at the day before. Then Colville heard one of them saying that he would like a chance to paint some lady whose name he did not catch, and "She looks awfully sarcastic," one of the young fellows said. "They say she _is_," said another. "They say she's awfully intellectual." "Boston?" queried a third. "No, Kalamazoo. The centre of culture is out there now." "She knows how to dress, anyhow," said the first commentator. "I wonder what Parker would talk to her about when he was painting her. He's never read anything but Poe's 'Ullalume.'" "Well, that's a good subject--'Ullalume.'" "I suppose she's read it?" "She's read 'most everything, they say." "What's an Ullalume, anyway, Parker?" One of the group sprang up from the table and drew on the wall what he labelled "An Ullalume." Another rapidly depicted Parker in the moment of sketching a young lady; her portrait had got as far as the eyes and nose when some one protested: "Oh, hello! No personalities." The draughtsman said, "Well, all right!" and sat down again. "Hall talked with her the most. What did she say, Hall?" "Hall can't remember words in three syllables, but he says it was mighty brilliant and mighty deep." "They say she's a niece of Mrs. Bowen's. She's staying with Mrs. Bowen." Then it was the wisdom and brilliancy and severity of Imogene Graham that these young men stood in awe of! Colville remembered how the minds of girls of twenty had once dazzled him. "And yes," he mused, "she must have believed that we were talking literature in the Cascine. Certainly I should have thought it an intellectual time when I was at that age," he owned to himself with forlorn irony. The young fellows went on to speak of Mrs. Bowen, whom it seemed they had known the winter before. She had been very polite to them; they praised her as if she were quite an old woman. "But she must have been a very pretty girl," one of them put in. "Well, she has a good deal of style yet." "Oh yes, but she never could have been a beauty like the other one."