The throbbing ceased. Helen knew the truth. There would be no exhibition. She felt faint; there was no heart left in her. "And these?" asked M. Vailliant, looking at a time-coloured board on top of a pile on a chair. "Discarded. They were too awful--some of them just dashed off for fun." "Oh!" M. Vailliant spread his legs as he bent over the pile; he puffed out his lips and sucked them in, his only sign of emotion, as he began separating the drawings into two piles% Then he applied the same process to those on the table, without question or comment. Helen did not know what to make of him. She was dizzy with curiosity and hope. When he was through, still silent like some general over a war-map, this master of artistic fate, who knew that the real master was the public who paid his rent, made a single pile of those which he had chosen. "And these?" He found he had missed some against the wall behind a portière. "Oh, cartoons I call them--not a bit worth while!" said Helen. "Caricatures, perhaps. I just did them for the sport of it." M. Vailliant did not seem to hear her. He went through the cartoons twice, still keeping up that motion of his lips as if he were alternately blowing soap bubbles and sucking in a string. "Have you ever tried etching?" he asked. "No. I'd like it, but--I----" gasped Helen. "I would if I were you," he said, so very matter-of-factly that she was puzzled. "Ever tried painting?" "I--yes----" she faltered. His shrewd eyes were looking at her sharply. "Have you anything that you've done?" "Yes, but it's awful--just splotches of colour. I see colour that way. Shall I get it?" she asked. "Why not? Let's see the whole shop while we are at it." Helen ran upstairs, wondering if he were making fun of her. Not one word of praise had he spoken. He had given no sign of enthusiasm. Yet he had asked her if she had ever tried etching and wanted to see this painting which she drew from under a pile of clothes on the cupboard shelf. Well, if the great art dealer had come from Paris to see the whole shop, then he should see it. Let him be amused. She did not care. He could not hurt her feelings; he should not see that she minded when he told her the worst. "Helen's painting is only for fun," Henriette was explaining to M. Vailliant as they waited for Helen's return. "Please don't be too critical. She is very sensitive." "Oh, no. I realise that she is not a serious painter like you, Mademoiselle. I thought I should like to see what ideas of colour she had. Why not?" M. Vailliant mused, as he picked out two from the pile of charcoals on the table and laid them on top in a sort of bored, add-six-and-multiply-by-four manner.