Mademoiselle Delaunay looked after her for a moment--with the same critical attention as before--then with a shrug she threw herself into a corner of the divan, drawing about her a bit of old embroidered stuff which lay there. It was so flung, however, as to leave one dainty foot in an embroidered silk stocking visible beyond it. The tone of the stocking was repeated in the bunch of violets at her neck, and the purples of the flowers told with charming effect against her white skin and the pale fawn colour of her dress and hair. David watched her with intoxication. She could hardly be taller than most children of fourteen, but her proportions were so small and delicate that her height, whatever it was, seemed to him the perfect height for a woman. She handled her cigarette with mannish airs; unless it were some old harridan in a collier's cottage, he had never seen a woman smoke before, and certainly he had never guessed it could become her so well. Not pretty! He was in no mood to dissect the pale irregular face with its subtleties of line and expression; but, as she sat there smoking and chatting, she was to him the realisation--the climax of his dream of Paris. All the lightness and grace of that dream, the strangeness, the thrill of it seemed to have passed into her. 'Will you stay in those rooms?' she inquired, slowly blowing away the curls of smoke in front of her. David replied that he could not yet decide. He looked as he felt--in a difficulty. 'Oh! _you_ will do well enough there. But your sister--_Tenez_! There is a family on the floor below--an artist and his wife. I have known them take _pensionnaires_. They are not the most distinguished persons in the world--_mais enfin_!--it is not for long. Your sister might do worse than board with them.' David thanked her eagerly. He would make all inquiries. He had in his pocket a note of introduction from Dubois to Madame Cervin, and another, he believed, to the gentleman on the ground floor--to M. Montjoie, the sculptor. 'Ah! M. Montjoie!' Her brows went up, her grey eyes flashed. As for her tone it was half amused, half contemptuous. She began to speak, moved restlessly, then apparently thought better of it. 'After all,' she said, in a rapid undertone, '_qu'est-ce que cela me fait? Allons._ Why did you come here at all, instead of to an hotel, for so short a time?' He explained as well as he was able. 'You wanted to see something of French life, and French artists or writers?' she repeated slowly, 'and you come with introductions from Xavier Dubois! _C'est drole, ca._ Have you studied art?' He laughed. 'No--except in books.' 'What books?' 'Novels--George Sand's.' It was her turn to laugh now. 'You are really too amusing! No, Monsieur, no; you interest me. I have the best will in the world towards you; but I cannot ask Consuelos and Teverinos to meet you. _Pas possible._ I regret--' She fell into silence a moment, studying him with a merry look. Then she broke out again.