that it had seemed a long while, and that she was very hungry when
they arrived. She remembered the trellis and the boiled eggs and the
cutlets, and that after breakfast M. Daveau had painted a high
stairway that led to the top of the hill and she remembered how she
had stood behind him wondering at the ease with which he drew in the
steps. In the evening there had been a little exhibition of sketches,
and in the boat going home he had talked to her; and she had enjoyed
talking to him. Of his conversation she only recalled one sentence.
She had asked him if he liked classical music, and he had answered,
'There is no music except classical music.' And it was this chance
phrase that made the day memorable; its very sententiousness had
pleased her; in that calm bright evening she had realised and it had
helped her to realise that there existed a higher plane of
appreciation and feeling than that on which her mind moved.

At the end of July, Elsie and Cissy spoke of going into the country,
and they asked Mildred to come with them. Barbizon was a village close
to the Forest of Fontainebleau. There was an inn where they would be
comfortable: all the clever young fellows went to Barbizon for the
summer. But Mildred thought that on the whole it would be better for
her to continue working in the studio without interruption. Elsie and
Cissy did not agree with her. They told her that she would find the
studio almost deserted and quite intolerable in August. Bad tobacco,
drains, and Italian models--Faugh! But their description of what the
studio would become in the hot weather did not stir Mildred's
resolution. M. Daveau had told her that landscape painting would come
to her very easily when she had learnt to draw, and that the way to
learn to draw was to draw from the nude. So she bore with the heat and
the smells for eight hours a day. There were but four or five other
pupils beside herself; this was an advantage in a way, but these few