girl as she sat for a nymph, and said in an interested way that her flesh
was as firm and fine as a Tongan's. He even disputed with his uncle on
the tints of her skin, on seeing him paint it in, showing a fine eye for
colour. But there was nothing more; he was impressed, observant,
interested--that was all. His uncle began to wonder if the Englishman
was, after all, deeper in the grain than the savage. He contented
himself with the belief that the most vigorous natures are the most
difficult to rouse. Mademoiselle Cerise sang, with chic and abandon very
fascinating to his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air and
sentiment. It was after a night at the opera when they had seen her in
"Lucia," and the contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted,
showed her at the most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling
chanson to the delicate pathos of a song of De Musset's.

Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman--no. He had seen a new
life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could
still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had come
to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle
Cerise said to Ian at last:

"Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no
matter."

She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he
did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there in
his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time:
"You, monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in
you would out. You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and
your wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol
or the Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing