asked herself sometimes if this was what it meant to be an artist's wife. Was this all? Was life to be like this for years and years?... Their hotel was a rambling low building surrounded by high walls, with a high terrace behind, from which there was a glimpse of the sea and which was well shaded by branching plane trees. Here on calm summer nights the dinner table was spread for the _pensionnaires_, who gradually arrived. There were a few French, of a nondescript sort, a fat American from Honolulu, who had been rolling about Europe since the Spanish War, in which he had had some part. Then there was a Russian lady with two children and a Finnish maid. She was already there when they arrived and kept by herself, taking her meals at a little table with her oldest child. This Russian, a Madame Saratoff, piqued Milly's curiosity, and she soon became acquainted with her. One day when they happened to be alone on the terrace, the Russian lady turned to her with a swift smile,-- "You are American?" and when Milly admitted it, she added, "One can always tell the American women from the English." She spoke English easily, with the slightest sort of accent that merely added distinction to whatever she said. Madame Saratoff was still young, and though not a beautiful woman, had an air of privilege and breeding, with something odd in the glitter of her eyes and the wolfish way in which her curving upper lip revealed strong white teeth. She had a good figure, as Milly had already recognized, and she dressed well, with great simplicity. Milly felt interested in her, and the women talked for an hour. Milly reported to her husband:-- "She's really a Baroness. Her husband is in the diplomatic service--off in the east somewhere, and she's here alone with the children and her maid. Don't you think she's interesting looking?" The artist replied indifferently,-- "Not particularly--she has fine hands." He seemed to have noticed that about her.