book and took up her palette again.

Our friend read the number: "2,000 francs." He said nothing for a time,
but stood looking at the picture, while the copyist began actively to
dabble with her paint. "For a copy, isn't that a good deal?" he asked at
last. "Pas beaucoup?"

The young lady raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from head
to foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the right
answer. "Yes, it's a good deal. But my copy has remarkable qualities, it
is worth nothing less."

The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but I
have said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it.
He apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman's
phrase, and it gratified him to think that she was so honest. Beauty,
talent, virtue; she combined everything! "But you must finish it," he
said. "FINISH, you know;" and he pointed to the unpainted hand of the
figure.

"Oh, it shall be finished in perfection; in the perfection of
perfections!" cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, she
deposited a rosy blotch in the middle of the Madonna's cheek.

But the American frowned. "Ah, too red, too red!" he rejoined. "Her
complexion," pointing to the Murillo, "is--more delicate."

"Delicate? Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sevres
biscuit. I am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of my art.
And where will you allow us to send it to you? Your address?"