“As you like,” he said, with a sigh; “but there are some more I should have liked to point out to you--” “That is pretty,” said Nancy, pointing to a bright-coloured copy which one of the many workers in the Salon Carré was making. “Mayn’t one look what they are doing? they would paint at home if they didn’t want to be seen. Oh, they are _copying_, are they? I am sure that is a great deal prettier than the old thing on the wall. What do they copy for?” “To sell chiefly,” said Arthur, with a certain sullenness in his despair. “Oh, to sell! I suppose people like to have them to hang in their rooms? how curious! I would much rather have a picture of you.” Now Arthur had been falling into lower and lower depths of despondency up to this moment. He had said to himself that all his efforts were mere failures--that he could do nothing, and must give up the attempt; but now he cheered up quite unaccountably, quite unreasonably. There was nothing in what she had said to throw a new light upon Nancy’s capacity and rehabilitate her in his eyes, yet somehow it did so. A sudden tender compunction for the harsh judgment he had been forming came into his mind, softening and melting him. He felt disposed to beg her pardon on his knees. “You silly girl,” he said, “what do you want with my picture? If it was of you, it might be worth something; but tell me, Nancy, if I were to buy you some of those copies, which would you choose?” “I don’t want one; you are buying too many things already. Well, perhaps _that_,” said Nancy at random, pointing at the picture which French taste entitles _La Belle Jardinière_. It was a lucky guess enough. “You shall have it, my darling,” cried Arthur delighted, “I knew you had real taste at the bottom of your heart.” “Oh no, not I,” cried Nancy, shrugging her shoulders and dragging him on, “I don’t care about it. It was only the first that caught my eye. Let us go on quickly through the other rooms; we have been such a long time here. You must not buy that thing, what should I do with it? I don’t really care for pictures. To be sure they make a room rather nice when they have nice frames; but we have not even a room to hang them in. But I will tell you what I should like to do,” she continued, leading him out and in of the smaller rooms. “Let us go and get photographed, Arthur, _together_, in a nice large size. It will be a much nicer memorial of Paris. And then mamma would like it so much to hang up in the parlour and show to everybody. We must take her a present of some sort, and that would please ourselves too. She would like it a great deal better than that pink lady with the little boy.” “For heaven’s sake don’t describe the picture like that! Do you know it is a famous Raffaelle,” said Arthur, all the more horrified that some one had heard her young confident voice and had turned round to admire.