Around and
around the flower-beds they raced, and when the officer came too near for
comfort, the bull-dog cut across a flower-bed, which perhaps was not
playing fair. The young man was amused, and the dog also seemed to enjoy the exercise. The policeman noticed this and decided to strike at the fountain-head of
the evil. He stormed up to the student and said, "As the owner of this
public nuisance I arrest you!" "But," objected the other, "I disclaim the dog." That was a poser. It was useless to attempt to catch the dog until three
gardeners lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away and disappeared in
the rue de Medici. The policeman shambled off to find consolation among the white-capped
nurses, and the student, looking at his watch, stood up yawning. Then
catching sight of Hastings, he smiled and bowed. Hastings walked over to
the marble, laughing. "Why, Clifford," he said, "I didn't recognize you." "It's my moustache," sighed the other. "I sacrificed it to humour a whim
of--of--a friend. What do you think of my dog?" "Then he is yours?" cried Hastings. "Of course. It's a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with
policemen, but he is known now and I'll have to stop it. He's gone home. He always does when the gardeners take a hand. It's a pity; he's fond of
rolling on lawns." Then they chatted for a moment of Hastings' prospects,
and Clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the studio. "You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram, told me about you before I met
you," explained Clifford, "and Elliott and I will be glad to do anything
we can." Then looking at his watch again, he muttered, "I have just ten
minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir," and started to go, but
catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain, took off his hat with
a confused smile. "Why are you not at Versailles?" she said, with an almost imperceptible
acknowledgment of Hastings' presence. "I--I'm going," murmured Clifford. For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red,
stammered, "With your permission I have the honour of presenting to you my
friend, Monsieur Hastings." Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of
malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head. "I could have wished," she said, "that Monsieur Clifford might spare me
more time when he brings with him so charming an American." "Must--must I go, Valentine?" began Clifford. "Certainly," she replied. Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added, "And
give my dearest love to Cécile!" As he disappeared in the rue d'Assas, the
girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering Hastings, looked at
him and shook her head. "Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly harebrained," she smiled, "it is
embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his success
at the Salon?" He looked puzzled and she noticed it. "You have been to the Salon, of course?" "Why, no," he answered, "I only arrived in Paris three days ago." She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued: "Nobody
imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on varnishing day the
Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur Clifford, who strolled
about as bland as you please with an orchid in his buttonhole, and a
beautiful picture on the line." She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain. "Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so astonished that
he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and actually
forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy," she continued with much merriment,
"fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back." Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau, looked
at her with respect. "May I ask," he said diffidently, "whether you are a
pupil of Bouguereau?" "I?" she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was he
permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance? His pleasant serious face questioned hers. "Tiens," she thought, "what a droll man!" "You surely study art?" he said. She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him. "Why do you think so?" "Because you speak as if you did." "You are making fun of me," she said, "and it is not good taste." She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair. "How long have you been in Paris?" she said at length. "Three days," he replied gravely. "But--but--surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!" Then after a pause, "Really are you a nouveau?" "I am," he said. She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and tilting
her parasol over her small head looked at him. "I don't believe it." He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself one
of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new and
green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open very
wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles. "You have never seen a studio?" "Never." "Nor a model?" "No." "How funny," she said solemnly. Then they both laughed. "And you," he said, "have seen studios?" "Hundreds." "And models?" "Millions." "And you know Bouguereau?" "Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and
Dagnan and Courtois, and--and all the rest of them!" "And yet you say you are not an artist." "Pardon," she said gravely, "did I say I was not?" "Won't you tell me?" he hesitated. At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden
her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel
at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and now, with his
elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain
jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying,
"I won't go home! I won't go home!" His nurse raised her hands to Heaven. "Just like a little American boy," thought Hastings, and a pang of
homesickness shot through him. Presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay. "Monsieur René, when you decide to come here you may have your boat." The boy backed away scowling. "Give me my boat, I say," he cried, "and don't call me René, for my
name's Randall and you know it!" "Hello!" said Hastings,--"Randall?--that's English." "I am American," announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning to
look at Hastings, "and she's such a fool she calls me René because mamma
calls me Ranny--"

Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind
Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him into
his lap. "One of my countrymen," he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while he
spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat. "Don't you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?" demanded Randall. Sure
enough, the American colours hung limply under the nurse's arm.