The next time I saw her she was beside me at dinner--we had come by chance to the same hotel, a small hotel in the Rue du Bac. Her mother was with her, an elderly, sedate Englishwoman, to whom the girl talked very affectionately, "Yes, dearest mamma"; "No, dearest mamma." She had a gay voice, though she never seemed to laugh or joke; but her face had a sad expression, and she sighed continually. After dinner her mother went to the piano and played with a great deal of accent and noise the "Brooklyn Cake Walk." "We used to dance that at Nice. Oh, dear mamma, do you remember that lovely two-step?" Her mother nodded and smiled, and began playing a Beethoven sonata, but she had not played many bars before her daughter said: "Now, mother, don't play any more; come and talk to us." I asked her if she did not like Beethoven. She shrugged her shoulders; an expression of irritation came into her face. She either did not want to talk of Beethoven then, or she was incapable of forming any opinion about him, and, judging from her interest in the "Brooklyn Cake Walk," I said: "The Cake Walk is gayer, isn't it?" The sarcasm seemed lost upon her; she sat looking at me with a vague expression in her eyes, and I found it impossible to say whether it was indifference or stupidity. "Mildred plays Beethoven beautifully. My daughter loves music. She plays the violin better than anybody you ever heard in your life." "Well, she must play very well indeed, for I've heard Sarasate and----" "If Mildred would only practise," and she pressed her daughter to play something for me. "I haven't got my keys--they're upstairs. No, mother ... leave me alone; I'm thinking of other things." Her mother went back to the piano and continued the sonata. Mildred looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, and then turned over the illustrated papers, saying they were stupid. We began to talk about foreign travel, and I learned that she and her mother spent only a small part of every year in England. She liked the Continent much better; English clothes were detestable; English pictures she did not know anything about, but suspected they must be pretty bad, or else why had I come to France to paint? She admitted, however, she had met some nice Englishmen, but Yankees--oh! Yankees! There was one at Biarritz. Do you know Biarritz? No, nor Italy. Italians are nice, are they not? There was one at Cannes. "Don't think I'm not interested in hearing about pictures, because I am, but I must look at your ring, it's so like mine. This one was given to me by an Irishman, who said the curse of Moreen Dhu would be upon me if I gave it away." "But who is Moreen Dhu? I never heard of her." "You mustn't ask me; I'm not a bit an intelligent woman. People always get sick of me if they see me two days running." "I doubt very much if that is true. If it were you wouldn't say it." "Why not? I shouldn't have thought of saying it if it weren't true."