'Drink!--drink to my success. I have two pictures, Monsieur, in the Salon; you know what that means? the same as your _Academie? Parfaitement!_ ah! you understand. One is well hung, on the line; the other has been shamefully treated--but _shamefully!_ And all the world knows why. I have some enemies on the jury, and they delight in a mean triumph over me--a triumph which is a scandal. But I have friends, too--good friends--and in three weeks the rewards will be voted. You understand? the medals, and the _mentions honorables_. As for a medal--no! I am only two years in the _atelier;_ I am not unreasonable. But a _mention! _--ah! Monsieur David, if they don't give it me I shall be very miserable.' Her voice had gone through a whole gamut of emotion in this speech--pride, elation, hope, anger, offended dignity--sinking finally to the plaintive note of a child asking for consolation. And luckily David had followed her. His French novels had brought him across the Salon and the jury system; and Barbier had told him tales. His courage rose. He poured the wine into the glass with a quick, uncertain hand, and raised it to his lips. '_A la gloire de Mademoiselle!_' he cried, tossing it down with a gesture almost as free and vivid as her own. Her eye followed him with excitement, taking in every detail of the action--the masculine breadth of chest, the beauty of the dark head and short upper lip. 'Very good--very good!' she said, clapping her small hands. 'You did that admirably--you improve--_n'est-ce pas, Mademoiselle?_' But Louie only stared blankly and somewhat haughtily in return. She was beginning to be tired of her silent _role_, and of the sort of subordination it implied. The French girl seemed to divine it, and her. 'She does not like me,' she said, with a kind of wonder under her breath, so that David did not catch the words. 'The other is quite different.' Then, springing up, she searched in the pockets of her jacket for something--lips pursed, brows knitted, as though the quest were important. 'Where are my cigarettes?' she demanded sharply. 'Ah! here they are. Mademoiselle--Monsieur.' Louie laughed rudely, pushing them back without a word. Then she got up, and began boldly to look about her. The shoes attracted her, and some Algerian scarves and burnouses that were lying on a distant chair. She went to turn them over.