She tried to look displeased and dignified, but the stranger's impudence and breezy familiarity amused her. He was a clean-cut, rather good-looking boy, and his laugh was not only contagious but positively refreshing after Mr. Ricaby's depressing conversation and funereal countenance. "How did you know that I understood English?" she inquired. Pointing to a copy of _Galignani's Messenger_ in which her palette and brushes had been wrapped, he said with a chuckle: "I saw that--jumped at conclusions--that's all. I'd make good as a Sherlock Holmes, eh, what? Besides, don't you suppose I can spot an American girl when I see one?" "I'm only half American," she answered, surprised to find herself conversing so glibly with a perfect stranger. "My mother was French. My father was an American." Noticing that she spoke in the past tense and remarking her mourning dress, he surmised that her parents were dead. She interested him, and it was more sympathy than idle curiosity that prompted the query: "Where do you live--New York?" She shook her head. "No, I live here, or, rather, have done so until quite recently. I'm going to America next Saturday--to live there for good." "Next Saturday!" he cried, in surprise. "Say, that's odd! I'm going on the _Touraine_ myself!" "The _Touraine_--yes--I think that's the name of the boat." Almost apologetically she added: "You see I haven't travelled very much." Looking at him more closely, she inquired: "You are an American?" He grinned, showing fine white teeth. "I try to be. Greatest country on earth. My name's Todhunter Chase--'Tod' for short you know. Everyone calls me Tod. It's hard to be dignified with such a name, ain't it?" Suddenly the girl caught sight of her painting which, hurled a dozen paces away, was lying face down in the dust. "Oh, my picture!" she exclaimed anxiously. "I do hope it's not damaged!" She started forward to pick it up, but Tod, by a quick jump, got there before her. "No damage done!" he cried triumphantly. With a careless laugh he added: "Anyhow, it's only a picture." "Only a picture!" she exclaimed indignantly as she clasped the precious canvas to her breast. "Don't you love what is your own? I've worked six long months over it. I wouldn't have anything happen to it for anything in the world. Don't you like pictures?" He gave a broad grin as he answered: "Pictures? I'm crazy for 'em--especially the kind engraved on a $500 U. S. Treasury note. I'm perfectly dippy over those." "Dippy? What's that?" she asked, puzzled. "Oh--you're not familiar with Broadway slang, are you? Well--'dippy' is most expressive and up to date. It means that one's joy over a certain thing is so keen that the mental faculties are put temporarily out of gear." She laughed heartily. He was certainly droll, this American. He made her laugh and that in itself was a novel sensation. As she packed up her things, she asked: "What is your life work?" "My what?" he gasped.