'Are you a connoisseur in pictures, Monsieur?' He had reddened already under her _persiflage._ At this he grew redder still. 'I have never seen any, Mademoiselle,' he said, almost piteously; 'except once a little exhibition in Manchester.' 'Nor sculpture?' 'No,' he said honestly; 'nor sculpture.' It seemed to him he was being held under a microscope, so keen and pitiless were her laughing eyes. But she left him no time to resent it. 'So you are a blank page, Monsieur--virgin soil--and you confess it. You interest me extremely. I should even like to teach you a little. I am the most ignorant person in the world. I know nothing about artists in books. _Mais je suis artiste, moi! fille d'artiste._ I could tell you tales--' She threw her graceful head back against the cushion behind her, and smiled again broadly, as though her sense of humour were irresistibly tickled by the situation. Then a whim seized her, and she sat up, grave and eager. 'I have drawn since I was eight years old,' she said; 'would you like to hear about it? It is not romantic--not the least in the world--but it is true.' And with what seemed to his foreign ear a marvellous swiftness and fertility of phrase, she poured out her story. After her mother died she had been sent at eight years old to board at a farm near Rouen by her father, who seemed to have regarded his daughter now as plaything and model, now as an intolerable drag on the freedom of a vicious career. And at the farm the child's gift declared itself. She began with copying the illustrations, the saints and holy families in a breviary belonging to one of the farm servants; she went on to draw the lambs, the carts, the horses, the farm buildings, on any piece of white wood she could find littered about the yard, or any bit of paper saved from a parcel, till at last the old cure took pity upon her and gave her some chalks and a drawing-book. At fourteen her father, for a caprice, reclaimed her, and she found herself alone with him in Paris. To judge from the hints she threw out, her life during thee next few years had been of the roughest and wildest, protected only by her indomitable resolve to learn, to make herself an artist, come what would. 'I meant to be _famous_, and I mean it still!' she said, with a passionate emphasis which made David open his eyes. Her father refused to believe in her gift, and was far too self-indulgent and brutal to teach her. But some of his artist friends were kind to her, and taught her intermittently; by the help of some of them she got permission, although under age, to copy in the Louvre, and with hardly any technical knowledge worked there feverishly from morning to night; and at last Taranne--the great Taranne, from whose _atelier_ so many considerable artists had gone out to the conquest of the public--Taranne had seen some of her drawings, heard her story, and generously taken her as a pupil.