When Helen returned with her painting, a little thing of a wet shepherd and his dog in a burst of soft, apologetic sunlight through the mist, he took it from her with a casual nod and having set it on the mantelpiece stepped slowly backward and resumed his lip-movements, which he interrupted long enough to ask Helen if she had had any lessons in painting. "I've only watched Henriette and taken some of her colours and splotched, as I call it," she replied almost defiantly. But he only muttered, "Impressionistic!" between his puffs and suckings. "Yes, that is what I should say!" put in Henriette. "I know it!" exclaimed Helen, with an abruptness that startled him out of his mannerism into an intense glance at her. She was laughing, her chin up, the regular teeth showing in a white line. If ever eyes had invited any critic to shoot his sharpest darts they were hers. "And the exhibition?" she demanded. "Shall we hold it in the Salon itself or at the Louvre?" M. Vailliant opened his mouth as if he were about to say something emotional; then rubbed his chin and stepped to one side to have another look at the painting. "Of course I don't think it is as good as Millet--not quite," Helen proceeded, forcing her measure a trifle. "Isn't it wonderful to find a genius at Mervaux so unexpect----" She broke off her satire helplessly. "Quite!" said M. Vailliant, looking at her and rubbing his chin again. "I'll put the painting on the back wall to lighten up the gallery--good contrast, line and colour," he went on. "This is the lot I have chosen for the exhibition," he said, indicating the pile on the table. "You mean it! You mean it!" But the smile on M. Vailliant's face told her without words that he did; and reaching across the table, in her quick impulse, she took his hands in hers. He felt their pressure tighten so that his soft palms were almost doubled over as, unheeding her mother's exclamation at the action, she demanded: "Do you think that I ought to go and learn to be a nurse, or can I make my living drawing these things?" And as suddenly as she had seized his hands she drew away and spread out hers in an appeal: "Honest! No nice little phrases, but honest!" "Nursing!" exclaimed the dealer, lifting his hands with outstretched fingers, horror written on his face. "Giving sick people medicine and adjusting bandages! You, my girl! No! Who ever suggested it?" She seemed to draw nearer, though she stood motionless, such was the intensity of her inquiry. "A living, I mean! I must decide! I can't stand it any longer!" M. Vailliant rubbed his chin again and became the business man. "I'm willing to give you the chance," he said. "We'll hold the exhibition--provided there isn't war. War! That's the end of everything--no art sold then. And the news is bad, very bad to-day. Yes, I'll give the exhibition if you will agree to terms. Talking business and no nonsense, now."