"Talking of the Cubists' work"--Fantine reverted to the subject. "I was over in Paris last year when they held their exhibition. Rather a funny thing happened." She dipped the long slab of sugar daintily into her cup and sucked it like a wilful child, conscious of stolen pleasure. "We used to call that a 'canard,' Pierrot----" laughingly, she interjected--"Well, revenons! There was a picture--I can't quite remember the name. But I think it was called 'A woman, falling downstairs.' There was always a little crowd before it--the artist was the 'dernier cri'--and I stood one day and amused myself by listening to their remarks. One man said: 'There--don't you _see_? It's her head--and that touch of white is an arm--and, well, of course! her foot is plain against the background of the wall.' The poor lady by his side tried in vain to see the outline. She screwed up both her eyes and looked like a child with a jig-saw puzzle. As to myself----" Fantine laughed--"I must confess I could make out nothing but a blur of colour and sharp lines without the slightest human form. Well, some months later I happened to meet this very artist and I told him of the enthusiasm in Paris and the remarks I had overheard. Ma foi!--I thought he would have slain me. He said: "'Madame--They are fools, fools, fools! There is no woman--But--of course! It's the feeling ... the fear ... I have painted. The _sense_ of falling down steep stairs.'" McTaggart laughed heartily. "Well--it's a bit above my head! I'm afraid I've no artistic merit. I like a picture I understand." "I know." Fantine's voice was sweet, but malice lay underneath--"a picture that tells its own story--like that famous Scotch cow lost in the snow." But her host's attention was wandering. The Titian "Flora" had caught his eye. With flushed cheeks and an air of pride she was smoking her first cigarette. He pointed it out to his companion. "Let's hope it will agree with her. Hullo! she's choked--poor child! She's really quite a pretty girl--I don't know why you find fault with her." "Not with her face," Fantine corrected--"one sees that the Bon Dieu modelled that. It's the sinful clothes she makes for herself--without celestial inspiration! She reminds me of an English girl my husband used to adore in Algiers." McTaggart felt a sudden curiosity. This was the first time Mrs. Merrod had mentioned to him the late partner of her married joys and cares. "Yes? And what did _you_ say to that?" "I? why nothing." She laughed lightly. "I'm not jealous--pas si bete! He was always very kind to me and I liked to watch his little affairs. But in this instance it proved tragic..." She smiled the meaning out of the word. "What happened?" McTaggart asked, his eyes still on the distant "Flora." "She was very pretty--the wild-rose type--and poor Gustave was quite captured. You see, she always wore gloves..." She paused with a pensive, teasing air.