She wondered why her father had always insisted on keeping his marriage secret. It was not because he was ashamed of her mother, who came of a distinguished family. He must have been fond of her in his undemonstrative way, for he cried bitterly when she died. For some time he seemed to find comfort in his daughter's companionship, but little by little the man's eccentricities estranged them. Owing to his frequent absences she saw less and less of him until, at last, she asked to be allowed to return to Paris to study art. He readily acquiesced and provided her with a comfortable allowance. To their friend, Leon Ricaby, to whom he handed a long envelope, he had said in her hearing: "This, Mr. Ricaby, contains my last will. I have named you as executor. I have left everything to Paula. If anything happens to me, look after my little girl. Another will, executed years ago, in my brother's favor, is in existence. For reasons of my own I do not wish to destroy that will. It would lead to explanations and unpleasantness I would rather avoid. But this new will post-dates the old one. This is the only valid will." That was only six months ago, and now he, too, was gone. Thus absorbed in these reflections, Paula did not notice how dangerously her stool tilted on the treacherous, highly polished parquet floor. There was a little spot high up on the canvas which she wanted to reach, so, slightly elevating herself, she leaned forward, palette in one hand, brush extended in the other. Suddenly the stool slipped backwards and she was thrown heavily against the easel which went crashing to the ground, the picture, palette, paint box, and brushes being hurled in all directions. It was all over before she had time to cry out, and the next instant she found herself sitting unceremoniously on the floor in the midst of all the debris. "Gee! That was a tumble! Not hurt, are you?" exclaimed a man's voice in English. Paula looked up in amazement. She had heard no footsteps and had no idea that anyone was near. Standing looking down at her, his face trying to suppress a grin, was a young man of about twenty-five. He was rather loudly dressed in a check lounging suit and red tie, and as much by his manner as by his clean-shaven face and clothes she took him for a fellow countryman. "Just like an American's bad breeding to laugh at a woman's misfortune," was her inward indignant comment. Lifting his hat, he extended his hand to assist her to rise. "Lucky I happened along, eh?" he grinned. Paula carefully stretched out her arms to make sure that no bones were broken. "You didn't prevent my fall," she said ruefully. "No," he laughed, "but it's given me an excuse to make the acquaintance of a pretty girl."