morning at eight, she worked there till five. As she did not know how
to employ her evenings, she took M. Daveau's advice and joined his
night-class.

For three months she bore the strain of these long days easily; but
the fourth month pressed heavily upon her, and in the fifth month she
was a mere mechanism. She counted the number of heads more correctly
than she used to, she was more familiar with the proportions of the
human figure. Alas! her drawing was no better. It was blacker, harder,
less alive. And to drag her weariness all the way along the boulevards
seemed impossible. That foul smelling studio repelled her from afar,
the prospect of the eternal model--a man with his hand on his hip--a
woman leaning one hand on a stool, frightened her; and her blackened
drawing, that would not move out of its insipid ugliness, tempted her
no more with false hopes.

Mildred paused in her dressing; it seemed that she could not get her
clothes on. She had to sit down to rest. Tears welled up into her
eyes; and, in the midst of much mental and physical weakness, the maid
knocked at her door and handed her a letter. It was from Elsie.

'DEAREST MILDRED,--Here we are again in Barbizon, painting in the day
and dancing in the evening. There are a nice lot of fellows here, one
or two very clever ones. I have already picked up a lot of hints. How
we did waste our time in that studio. Square brush work, drawing by
the masses, what rot! I suppose you have abandoned it all long ago....
Cissy is here, she has thrown over Hopwood Blunt for good and all. She
is at present much interested in a division of the tones man. A clever
fellow, but not nearly so good-looking as mine. The inn stands in a
large garden, and we dine and walk after dinner under the trees, and