"I painted it to sell," said Cartaret miserably, "but it doesn't deserve selling--perhaps just because I did paint it to sell." To his surprise, Fourget came to him and put an arm on his shoulder, a withered hand patting the American's back. "Ah, if but some more-famous artists felt as you do! Come; let me have it. That is very well. I shall sell it to a fool. Many fools are my patrons. How else could I live? There is not enough good art to meet all demands, or there are not enough demands to meet all good art. Who shall say? Suffice it there are demands of sorts. Daily I thank the good God for His fools...." Cartaret went to Les Halles and bought a large box of strawberries. * * * * * He had put them carefully on his window-shelf and covered them with a copy of a last week's _Matin_--being an American, he of course read the _Matin_--for he was resolved that, now he again had a little money, these strawberries should be his final extravagance and should be treasured accordingly--he had just anchored the paper against the gentle Spring breeze when he became aware that he had another visitor. Standing by his table, much as she had stood there on the night of his second sight of her, was the Lady of the Rose. Cartaret thought that his eyes were playing him tricks. He rubbed his eyes. "It is I," she said. He thought that again he could detect the perfume of the Azure Rose. He again thought that he could see white mountain-tops in the sun. He could have sworn that, in the street, a hurdy-gurdy was playing: "Her brow is like the snaw-drift; Her throat is like the swan----" "I came in," she was saying, "to see how you were. I should have sent Chitta, but she was so long coming back from an errand." "Thank you," he said--he was not yet certain of himself--"I'm quite well. But I'm very glad you called." "Yet you, sir, look pale, and your friend"--her forehead puckered--"told me that you had been ill." "My friend?" He spoke as if he had none in the world, though now he knew better. "Yes: such a pleasant old gentleman with gray hair and glasses. As I came in half an hour ago, I met him on the stairs." "Fourget!" "Was that his name? He seemed most anxious about you." "He is my friend." "I like him," said the Lady of the Rose. "Then you understand him. I didn't understand him--till this morning. He is an art-dealer: those that he won't buy from think him hard; the friends of those that he buys from think him a fool." Although he had reassured her of his health, she seemed charmingly willing to linger. Really, she was looking at Cartaret's haggard cheeks with a wonderful sympathy. "So he bought from you?" Cartaret nodded. "Only I hope _you_ won't think him a fool," he said. "I shall consider," she laughed. "I must first see some of your work, sir."