“He promised me to be here at ten o'clock, at the top of the stairs, to show me around the principal galleries.” “Will you permit me to take his place, Duchess?” “No, no. Your friends need you. We shall see each other again very soon, for I shall expect you to lunch with us.” Musadieu hastened toward them. He had been detained for some minutes in the hall of sculpture, and excused himself, breathless already. “This way, Duchess, this way,” said he. “Let us begin at the right.” They were just disappearing among the throng when the Comtesse de Guilleroy, leaning on her daughter's arm, entered and looked around in search of Olivier Bertin. He saw them and hastened to meet them. As he greeted the two ladies, he said: “How charming you look to-day. Really, Nanette has improved very much. She has actually changed in a week.” He regarded her with the eye of a close observer, adding: “The lines of her face are softer, yet more expressive; her complexion is clearer. She is already something less of a little girl and somewhat more of a Parisian.” Suddenly he bethought himself of the grand affair of the day. “Let us begin at the right,” said he, “and we shall soon overtake the Duchess.” The Countess, well informed on all matters connected with painting, and as preoccupied as if she were herself on exhibition, inquired: “What do they say of the exposition?” “A fine one,” Bertin replied. “There is a remarkable Bonnat, two excellent things by Carolus Duran, an admirable Puvis de Chavannes, a very new and astonishing Roll, an exquisite Gervex, and many others, by Beraud, Cazin, Duez--in short, a heap of good things.” “And you?” said the Countess. “Oh, they compliment me, but I am not satisfied.” “You never are satisfied.” “Yes, sometimes. But to-day I really feel that I am right.” “Why?” “I do not know.” “Let us go to see it.” When they arrived before Bertin's picture--two little peasant-girls taking a bath in a brook--they found a group admiring it. The Countess was delighted, and whispered: “It is simply a delicious bit--a jewel! You never have done anything better.” Bertin pressed close to her, loving her and thanking her for every word that calmed his suffering and healed his aching heart. Through his mind ran arguments to convince him that she was right, that she must judge accurately with the intelligent observation of an experienced Parisian. He forgot, so desirous was he to reassure himself, that for at least twelve years he had justly reproached her for too much admiring the dainty trifles, the elegant nothings, the sentimentalities and nameless trivialities of the passing fancy of the day, and never art, art alone, art detached from the popular ideas, tendencies, and prejudices. “Let us go on,” said he, drawing them away from his picture. He led them for a long time from gallery to gallery, showing them notable canvases and explaining their subjects, happy to be with them. “What time is it?” the Countess asked suddenly.