Francine began to feel a certain reluctant interest in him when
he spoke of "our young ladies." She asked if he belonged to the
school.

The corners of his mouth turned up again. "I'm one of the
masters," he said. "Are _you_ going to belong to the school,
too?"

Francine bent her head, with a gravity and condescension intended
to keep him at his proper distance. Far from being discouraged,
he permitted his curiosity to t ake additional liberties. "Are
you to have the misfortune of being one of my pupils?" he asked.

"I don't know who you are."

"You won't be much wiser when you do know. My name is Alban
Morris."

Francine corrected herself. "I mean, I don't know what you
teach."

Alban Morris pointed to the fragments of his sketch from Nature.
"I am a bad artist," he said. "Some bad artists become Royal
Academicians. Some take to drink. Some get a pension. And some--I
am one of them--find refuge in schools. Drawing is an 'Extra' at
this school. Will you take my advice? Spare your good father's
pocket; say you don't want to learn to draw."

He was so gravely in earnest that Francine burst out laughing.
"You are a strange man," she said.