of what it would bring _par hectare_. It is _trop
arrangee_, that country, all laid out in a pattern of
hedges and clumps, for the pleasure of the milords. And
every milord has the taste of every other milord. He will
go home to perpetuate that!"

"_Si, si! Mais c'est pour sa patrie._"

Nadie defended him. Women always did.

"Bah!" returned her lover. "_Pour nous autres artists la
France est la patrie, et la France seule!_ Every day he
is in England he will lose--lose--lose. Enfin, he will
paint the portraits of the wives and daughters of Sir
Brown and Sir Smith, and he will do it as Sir Brown and
Sir Smith advise. _Avec son talent unique, distinctive!
Oh, je suis a bout de patience!_"

When Kendal's opinion materialized and it became known
that he meant to go back in February, and would send
nothing to the Salon that year, the studio tore its hair
and hugged its content. All but the master, who attempted
to dissuade his pupil with literal tears, of which he
did not seem in the least ashamed and which annoyed Kendal
very much. In fact, it was a dramatic splash of Lucien's
which happened to fall upon his coat-sleeve that decided
Kendal finally about the impossibility of living always
in Paris. He could not take life seriously where the
emotions lent themselves so easily. And Kendal thought
that he ought to take life seriously, because his natural