After a silence, in which they were talking of themselves, he burst out: “But I don’t see how Paris could help ’preciating you. I’ll bet you’re one of the best artists they ever saw…. The way you made up a picture in your mind about that juggler!” “Nope. Sorry. Can’t paint at all.” “Ah, stuff!” with a rudeness quite masterful. “I’ll bet your pictures are corkers.” “Um.” “Please, would you let me see some of them some time. I suppose it would bother—” “Come up-stairs. I feel inspired. You are about to hear some great though nasty criticisms on the works of the unfortunate Miss Nash.” She led the way, laughing to herself over something. She gave him no time to blush and hesitate over the impropriety of entering a lady’s room at midnight, but stalked ahead with a brief “Come in.” She opened a large portfolio covered with green-veined black paper and yanked out a dozen unframed pastels and wash-drawings which she scornfully tossed on the bed, saying, as she pointed to a mass of Marseilles roofs: “Do you see this sketch? The only good thing about it is the thing that last art editor, that red-headed youth, probably didn’t like. Don’t you hate red hair? You see these ridiculous glaring purple shadows under the _clocher?_” She stared down at the picture interestedly, forgetting him, pinching her chin thoughtfully, while she murmured: “They’re rather nice. Rather good. Rather good.” Then, quickly twisting her shoulders about, she poured out: “But look at this. Consider this arch. It’s miserably out of drawing. And see how I’ve faked this figure? It isn’t a real person at all. Don’t you notice how I’ve juggled with this stairway? Why, my dear man, every bit of the drawing in this thing would disgrace a seventh-grade drawing-class in Dos Puentes. And regard the bunch of lombardies in this other picture. They look like umbrellas upside down in a silly wash-basin. Uff! It’s terrible. _Affreux!_ Don’t act as though you liked them. You really needn’t, you know. Can’t you see now that they’re hideously out of drawing?” Mr. Wrenn’s fancy was walking down a green lane of old France toward a white cottage with orange-trees gleaming against its walls. In her pictures he had found the land of all his forsaken dreams. “I—I—I—” was all he could say, but admiration pulsed in it. “Thank you…. Yes, we _will_ play. Good night. To-morrow!” CHAPTER IX HE ENCOUNTERS THE INTELLECTUALS