'There, Monsieur!--there is your prototype. That is David--the young David--scourge of the Philistine. You are bigger and broader. I would rather fight him than you--but it is like you, all the same. Take it.' And she held out to him a photograph of the Donatello David at Florence--the divine young hero in his shepherd's hat, fresh from the slaying of the oppressor. He looked at it, red and wondering, then shook his head. 'What is it? Who made it, Mademoiselle?' 'Donatello--oh, I never saw it. I was never in Italy, but a friend gave it me. It is like you, I tell you. But, what use is that? You are English--yes, you _are_, in spite of your mother. It is very well to be called David--you may be Goliath all the time!' Her tone had grown hard and dry--insulting almost. Her look sent him a challenge. He stared at her dumbfounded. All the self-confidence with which he had hitherto governed his own world had deserted him. He was like a tongue-tied child in her hands. She enjoyed her mastery, and his discomfiture. Her look changed and melted in an instant. 'I am rude,' she said, 'and you can't answer me back--not yet--for a day or two. _Pardon_! Monsieur David--Mademoiselle--will you come to supper?' She put chairs and waved them to their places with the joyous animation of a child, waiting on them, fetching this and that, with the quickest, most graceful motions. She had brought from the _armoire_ some fine white napkins, and now she produced a glass or two and made her guests provide themselves with the red wine which neither had ever tasted before, and over which Louie made an involuntary face. Then she began to chatter and to eat--both as fast as possible--now laughing at her own English or at David's French, and now laying down her knife and fork that she might look at Louie with an intent professional look which contrasted oddly with the wild freedom of her talk and movements. Suddenly she took up a wineglass and held it out to David with a piteous childish gesture. 'Fill it, Monsieur, and then drink--drink to my good luck. I wish for something--with my _life_--my soul; but there are people who hate me, who would delight to see me crushed. And it will be three weeks--three long long weeks, almost--before I know.' She was very pale, the tears had sprung to her eyes, and the hand holding the glass trembled. David flushed and frowned in the vain desire to understand her. 'What am I to do?' he said, taking the glass mechanically, but making no use of it.