"Mr. Robert Saxon," began the American, "is, I believe, one of the most distinguished of the followers of Frederick Marston. Miss Filson and I are both friends of Mr. Saxon, and, while in Paris, we wished to visit the shrine of the Marston school. We have taken the liberty of coming here. Is it possible to admit us?" The instructor looked cautiously into the _atelier_, satisfied himself that the model had not resumed her throne and nudity, then flung back the door with a ceremonious sweep. Steele, familiar with such surroundings, cast only a casual glance about the interior. It was like many of the smaller schools in which he had himself painted. To the girl, who had never seen a life-class at work, it was stepping into a new world. Her eyes wandered about the walls, and came back to the faces. "I have never had the honor of meeting your friend, Monsieur Saxon," declared the instructor in English. "But his reputation has crossed the sea! I have had the pleasure of seeing several of his canvases. There is none of us following in the footsteps of Marston who would not feel his life crowned with high success, had he come as close as Saxon to grasping the secret that made Marston Marston. Your great country should be proud of him." Steele smiled. "Our country could also claim Marston. You forget that, monsieur." The instructor spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. "Ah, _mon ami_, that is debatable. True, your country gave him birth, but it was France that gave him his art." "Did you know," suggested Steele, "that some of the unsigned Saxon pictures have passed competent critics as the work of Marston?" Hautecoeur lifted his heavy brows. "Impossible, monsieur," he protested; "quite impossible! It is the master's boast that any man who can pass a painting as a Marston has his invitation to do so. He never signs a canvas--it is unnecessary--his stroke--his treatment--these are sufficient signature. I do not belittle the art of your friend," he hastened to explain, "but there is a certain--what shall I say?--a certain individualism about the work of this greatest of moderns which is inimitable. One must indeed be much the novice to be misled. Yet, I grant you there was one quality the master himself did not formerly possess which the American grasped from the beginning." "His virility of touch?" inquired Steele.