Before his happier mood changed his attention was attracted by a woman who came rapidly toward the avenue from a little alley at the side. He looked up quickly at the feminine creature who so aptly appeared upon his musings. She was young; her form in its simple dress assured him this. He could not see her face, for it was covered by her hands. Abruptly taking the opposite direction, she went over to a farther seat, where she sat down, and when the young girl put her arms on the back of the seat, her head upon her arms, and in the remoteness this part of the avenue offered, cried without restraint, the kind-hearted Bulstrode felt that it was too cruel to be true. But soft-hearted though he was, the gentleman was a worldling as well, and that the outburst was a ruse more than suggested itself to him as he went over to the lovely Niobe whose abundant fair hair sunned from under her simple straw hat and from beneath whose frayed skirt showed a worn little shoe. He spoke in French. "Pardon, madame, but you seem in great distress." The poor thing started violently, and as soon as she displayed her pretty tearful face the American recognized in her a compatriot. She waved him emphatically away. "Oh, please don't notice me--don't speak to me--I didn't see that anybody was there." "I am an American, too: can't I do anything for you--won't you let me?" And he saw at once that she wanted to be left alone. She averted her head determinedly. "No, no, please don't notice me. Please go away!" He had nothing to do but to obey her, and as he reluctantly did so a smart pony-cart driven by a lady alone came briskly along and drew up, for the occupant had recognized him. "Get in!" she rather commanded. "My dear Jimmy, how _nice_ to find you here, and how nice to drive you at least as far as the entrance!" As the rebuffed philanthropist accepted he cast a ruthful glance at the solitary figure on the bench. "Do you see that poor girl over there? She's an American, and in real trouble." "My _dear_ Jimmy!" His companion's tone left him in no doubt as to her scepticism. "Oh, I know, I know," he interrupted, "but she's not a fraud. She's the real thing." They were already gayly whirling away from the sad little figure. "Did you make her cry?" "I? Certainly not." "Then let the man who did wipe her tears away!" But Bulstrode had seen the face of the girl, and he was haunted by it all day until the Bois and its bright atmosphere became only the setting for an unhappy woman, young and lovely, whom it had been impossible for him to help. Somebody had said that Bulstrode should have his portrait done with his hands in his pockets, and Mrs. Falconer had replied, "Or rather with _other_ people's hands in his pockets!" The next afternoon he found himself part of a group of people who, out of charity and curiosity, patronized the Western Artists' Exhibition in the Rue Monsieur.