A little breeze had risen, blowing from the south. It made the heat more tolerable, and it was the begetter of a pretty tableau by the village fountain. For there, with her pitcher set on the well-rim, stood a bright Hebe of the sun, ripe, warm, and glowing as the very fruit of desire. Now she had put her hands back under her free-falling hair--that was thick and pheasant brown and wavy like a spaniel’s--and had lifted it, sagging, that the cool air might blow under and comfort the roots. She was a full-bosomed wench, and the pose threw her figure into energetic and very graceful relief. Ned, who was really passionless, and responsive only to the artistic provocation, went up to her at once. “I should like to draw you like that,” said he. She twitched involuntarily; but, with immediate intuition, maintained her posture, and conned him from under languorous lids. “How, monsieur?” said she. “Exactly as you are. I have my tools with me. I beg you to do nothing but just breathe and enjoy life.” Actually, before she could deny him, he was sketching her. Then, suddenly--watching first the quick travelling of his pencil--she lowered her arms and, like a foolish virgin, extinguished the light of inspiration. “I think you are very impertinent,” she said. “If beauty,” said he calmly--for he had secured the essentials of his picture--“_will_ distribute largesse, it must not be surprised to see it scrambled for.” The girl’s lips parted, as if the fairy bee were probing there for honey. “What insolence!” she murmured. “Am I then beautiful? But perhaps monsieur sees his own image reflected in my eyes, and falls in love with it like the _damoiseau_ Narcisse.” She showed the slightest rim of white teeth. It was as if the bow of her mouth revealed itself strung with silver. Her eyes, when open, floated with deep amber lights; her cheeks were sweet warm beds dimpled by Love’s elbow; she was full of bold rich contrasts of colour--a young vestal flaming into the lust of life. Ned was a little surprised to hear a peasant girl, as he thought her, imaging from mythology. “I never fall in love,” he said gravely; “not even with myself.” The girl laughed out, putting her arms defiantly akimbo. “Then I would not be a suitor there,” she said. “To me? And why not?” “Because no man ever loved a woman well that did not love himself better.” She took her sun-bonnet and pitcher from the low wall. “I have heard of such as you,” she said. “It is to make your art your mistress, is it not?” “Yes,” said Ned. “Come and see why.” He held the sketch out to her. He had been working at it all the time he talked. “Little Holy Mother!” she murmured, after a vain attempt to repress her curiosity, “is that I?” “Is it not?” he said; “and would not _you_ love an art that enabled you so to record impressions of beauty?” “It is an impression, my faith! Am I black and white like a spectre? Where are my brown hair and my red cheeks?” Ned tapped his breast-pocket.