"Oh," cried the girl, "he is charming," and impulsively stooped to kiss
him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings' arms, and his nurse
pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl. She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed on
her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with her
handkerchief. Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again. "What an ill-tempered woman!" he said. "In America, most nurses are
flattered when people kiss their children." For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it
with a snap and looked at him defiantly. "Do you think it strange that she objected?" "Why not?" he said in surprise. Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes. His eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, "Why not?" "You _are_ droll," she murmured, bending her head. "Why?" But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in the
dust with her parasol. After a while he said--"I am glad to see that young
people have so much liberty here. I understood that the French were not at
all like us. You know in America--or at least where I live in Milbrook,
girls have every liberty,--go out alone and receive their friends alone,
and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see how it is now, and I am
glad I was mistaken." She raised her eyes to his and kept them there. He continued pleasantly--"Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of
pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,--and then _you_ are alone
too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,--do you have the liberty
of going to the theatre without a chaperone?" For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile
said, "Why do you ask me?" "Because you must know, of course," he said gaily. "Yes," she replied indifferently, "I know." He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had
misunderstood him. "I hope you don't think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance," he
began,--"in fact it is very odd but I don't know your name. When Mr.
Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in
France?" "It is the custom in the Latin Quarter," she said with a queer light in
her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly. "You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gêne_ here
in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are
out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with
small ceremony, and left us together with less,--only for that, and I am
his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know
each other very well--and I am not studying art, but--but--"

"But what?" he said, bewildered. "I shall not tell you,--it is a secret," she said with an uncertain smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright. Then in a moment her face fell. "Do you know Monsieur Clifford very
intimately?" "Not very." After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale. "My name is Valentine--Valentine Tissot. Might--might I ask a service of
you on such very short acquaintance?" "Oh," he cried, "I should be honoured." "It is only this," she said gently, "it is not much. Promise me not to
speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no
one about me." "I promise," he said, greatly puzzled. She laughed nervously. "I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice." "But," he began, "I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur
Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house." "My--my house!" she repeated. "I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family." The change in the girl's face shocked him. "I beg your pardon," he cried, "I have hurt you." And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman. "My parents are dead," she said. Presently he began again, very gently. "Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?" "I cannot," she answered. Then glancing up at him, "I am sorry; I should
like to; but believe me. I cannot." He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy. "It isn't because I don't wish to. I--I like you; you are very kind to
me." "Kind?" he cried, surprised and puzzled. "I like you," she said slowly, "and we will see each other sometimes if
you will." "At friends' houses." "No, not at friends' houses." "Where?" "Here," she said with defiant eyes. "Why," he cried, "in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than we
are." She looked at him curiously. "Yes, we are very Bohemian." "I think it is charming," he declared. "You see, we shall be in the best of society," she ventured timidly, with
a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in stately
ranks above the terrace. He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her
innocent little pleasantry. "Indeed," she smiled, "I shall be well chaperoned, because you see we are
under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are Apollo, and
Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals," counting them on her small gloved
fingers, "and Ceres, Hercules, and--but I can't make out--"

Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they were
seated. "Why, it's Love," he said. IV

"There is a nouveau here," drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel and
addressing his friend Bowles, "there is a nouveau here who is so tender
and green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into a
salad bowl." "Hayseed?" inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a broken
palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval. "Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies and
escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!" Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to "throw in a
little atmosphere," as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe
and finding it out struck a match on his neighbour's back to relight it. "His name," continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, "his
name is Hastings. He _is_ a berry. He knows no more about the world,"--and
here Mr. Laffat's face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of that
planet,--"than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll." Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch
on the other edge of the study and said, "Ah!" "Yes," continued his friend, "and would you imagine it, he seems to think
that everything here goes on as it does in his d----d little backwoods
ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in the street;
says how sensible it is; and how French parents are misrepresented in
America; says that for his part he finds French girls,--and he confessed
to only knowing one,--as jolly as American girls. I tried to set him
right, tried to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies walk about
alone or with students, and he was either too stupid or too innocent to
catch on.