abruptly demanded.

The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her shoulders,
put down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing her hands.

"How much?" said our friend, in English. "Combien?"

"Monsieur wishes to buy it?" asked the young lady in French.

"Very pretty, splendide. Combien?" repeated the American.

"It pleases monsieur, my little picture? It's a very beautiful subject,"
said the young lady.

"The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it. Combien?
Write it here." And he took a pencil from his pocket and showed her the
fly-leaf of his guide-book. She stood looking at him and scratching her
chin with the pencil. "Is it not for sale?" he asked. And as she still
stood reflecting, and looking at him with an eye which, in spite of her
desire to treat this avidity of patronage as a very old story, betrayed
an almost touching incredulity, he was afraid he had offended her. She
simply trying to look indifferent, and wondering how far she might go.
"I haven't made a mistake--pas insulte, no?" her interlocutor continued.
"Don't you understand a little English?"

The young lady's aptitude for playing a part at short notice was
remarkable. She fixed him with her conscious, perceptive eye and asked
him if he spoke no French. Then, "Donnez!" she said briefly, and took
the open guide-book. In the upper corner of the fly-leaf she traced a
number, in a minute and extremely neat hand. Then she handed back the