Jeanne's sobs were running on second speed now. The anguish was diminishing. Paul took advantage of the improved conditions to slide an arm part of the way round her waist. In two minutes he had said as much as the ordinary man could have worked off in ten. All good stuff, too. No padding. Jeanne's face rose from her apron like a full moon. She was too astounded to be angry. Paul continued to babble. Jeanne looked at him with growing wrath. That she, who received daily the affectionate badinage of gentlemen in bowler hats and check suits, who had once been invited to the White City by a solicitor's clerk, should be addressed in this way by a waiter! It was too much. She threw off his hand. 'Wretched little man!' she cried, stamping angrily. 'My angel!' protested Paul. Jeanne uttered a scornful laugh. 'You!' she said. There are few more withering remarks than 'You!' spoken in a certain way. Jeanne spoke it in just that way. Paul wilted. 'On eighteen shillings a week,' went on Jeanne, satirically, 'you would support a wife, yes? Why--' Paul recovered himself. He had an opening now, and proceeded to use it. 'Listen,' he said. 'At present, yes, it is true, I earn but eighteen shillings a week, but it will not always be so, no. I am not only a waiter. I am also an artist. I have painted a great picture. For a whole year I have worked, and now it is ready. I will sell it, and then, my angel--?' Jeanne's face had lost some of its scorn. She was listening with some respect. 'A picture?' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is money in pictures.' For the first time Paul was glad that his arm was no longer round her waist. To do justice to the great work he needed both hands for purposes of gesticulation. 'There is money in this picture,' he said. 'Oh, it is beautiful. I call it "The Awakening". It is a woodland scene. I come back from my work here, hot and tired, and a mere glance at that wood refreshes me. It is so cool, so green. The sun filters in golden splashes through the foliage. On a mossy bank, between two trees, lies a beautiful girl asleep. Above her, bending fondly over her, just about to kiss that flower-like face, is a young man in the dress of a shepherd. At the last moment he has looked over his shoulder to make sure that there is nobody near to see. He is wearing an expression so happy, so proud, that one's heart goes out to him.' 'Yes, there might be money in that,' cried Jeanne. 'There is, there is!' cried Paul. 'I shall sell it for many francs to a wealthy connoisseur. And then, my angel--' 'You are a good little man,' said the angel, patronizingly. 'Perhaps. We will see.' Paul caught her hand and kissed it. She smiled indulgently. 'Yes,' she said. 'There might be money. These English pay much money for pictures.' * * * * *