"Jeanne, a model is not a critic," said the author of the drawing, coming forward and grasping the canvas with no gentle hand.--"Ladies, if you wish to find fault, turn to your own studies. That proportion is frightful"--she pointed to different sketches as she spoke--"that ear is too large; and, madame, if you take a crust of paint like yours for freedom of touch, I pity you." This dispute was by no means the last during the evening. Opinions seemed to be plentiful in Bohemia, each individual being furnished with a set of her own on every subject broached; and as no diffidence was shown in putting them forth, the company quarreled with great good-nature and evident enjoyment. A pot of tea was then brewed by the owner of the studio, who had been English before she became Bohemian, and the beverage was handed round in tea-cups which, like the opinions of the guests, differed widely from each other. In the silence that attended this diversion Afra took the floor and said, "How about the garden-party to the country? Who is going?" Several spoke, and one asked, "Shall we take lunch with us?" "No, something will be provided for us there." "So much the better. When are we to meet, and where?" "Twelve o'clock, midday, at ----." "What messieurs are going?" "Quite a number--a tenor from the Grand Opera, and the leader of the orchestra, who is a magnificent violinist; that new Spanish painter who plays the guitar divinely; a poet--that is, he has written some pretty songs--besides plenty more." "That promises well." "You will bring your friend?" and the speaker nodded her head toward me. "I shall be delighted: I am so curious to see those eccentric--" Here a warning glance from Afra stopped me. But the lady only laughed and said, "You will see eccentricity enough to-morrow, if that is what you want. People who devote their minds to great objects have no time to think of little things. You had better see that Afra has on her bonnet or she will go without one." "Nonsense!" replied Afra.--"Miss," this to the owner of the studio, who was so called in honor of her English birth, "are you ever troubled by the ghost of that young painter who hung himself up there?" "Those who have occasion to commit suicide are not likely to come back: they have had enough of this world," said the Englishwoman. "Did some one really die here?" I asked. "Yes, really;" and Afra mimicked my tone of horror. "You know, a Bohemian is at home anywhere, so a change of country don't affect him much. If we find a place disagreeable, we travel." "Was he insane?" "Not more than the rest of us, but _you_ can't understand the feeling that would induce a man to do such a thing. This young fellow painted a picture: he put his mind, his soul, himself, into it, and sent it to the Exhibition. It was rejected--that is, he was rejected--and he came here and died. They found him suspended from that beam where the lamps hang now." "I thought your Bohemia was so gay?"