"Did you paint pictures all the time you were abroad?" she asked. "Not every minute. I travelled a lot, went about, was asked to shoot in England and Austria.... I had a good time." "Didn't you work hard?" "No. Isn't it disgraceful!" "But you exhibited in three salons. What were your pictures?" "I did a portrait of Lady Bylow and her ten children." "Was it a success?" He coloured. "They gave me a second medal." "Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed warmly. "And what were your others?" "A thing called 'The Witch.' Rather painful." "What was it?" "Life size. A young girl arrested in bed. Her frightened beauty is playing the deuce with the people around. I don't know why I did it--the painting of textures--her flesh, and the armour of the Puritan guard, the fur of the black cat--and--well, it was academic and I was young." "Did they reward you?" "No." "What was the third picture?" "Oh, just a girl," he said carelessly. "Did they give you a prize for it?" "Y-yes. Only a mention." "Was it a portrait?" "Yes--in a way." "What was it? Just a girl?" "Yes." "Who was she?" "Oh, just a girl----" "Was she pretty?" "Yes. Shall we dance this next----" "No. Was she a model?" "She posed----" Geraldine, lips on the edge of her spread fan, regarded him curiously. "That is a very romantic life, isn't it?" she murmured. "What?" "Yours. I don't know much about it; Kathleen took me to hear 'La Boheme'; and I found Murger's story in the library. I have also read 'Trilby.' Did _you_--were you--was life like that when you studied in the Latin Quarter?" He laughed. "Not a bit. I never saw that species of life off the stage." "Oh, wasn't there any romance?" she asked forlornly. "Well--as much as you find in New York or anywhere." "Is there any romance in New York?" "There is anywhere, isn't there? If only one has the instinct to recognise it and a capacity to comprehend it." "Of course," she murmured, "there are artists and studios and models and poverty everywhere.... I suppose that without poverty real romance is scarcely possible." He was still laughing when he answered: "Financial conditions make no difference. Romance is in one's self--or it is nowhere." "Is it in--you?" she asked audaciously. He made no pretence of restraining his mirth. "Why, I don't know, Geraldine. Lots of people have the capacity for it. Poverty, art, a studio, a velvet jacket, and models are not essentials.... You ask if it is in _me_. I think it is. I think it exists in anybody who can glorify the commonplace. To make people look with astonished interest at something which has always been too familiar to arrest their attention--only your romancer can accomplish this." "Please go on," she said as he ended. "I'm listening very hard. You _are_ glorifying commonplaces, you know." They both laughed; he, a little red, disconcerted, piqued, and withal charmed at her dainty thrust at himself.