artist was just the contrast which was needed for romance.

And he seemed by his own account to be making a very good income, too! Yet,
artists being such eccentric, extravagant fellows, doubtless Nancy's modest
little fortune would come in useful--so those about them argued carelessly.

Then one of her acquaintances, a thought more good-natured than the rest,
arranged that lovely, happy Nancy should be married from a pleasant country
house, in a dear little country church. Braving superstition, the wedding
took place in the last week of May, and bride and bridegroom had gone to
Italy--though, to be sure, it was rather late for Italy--for three
happy weeks.

Now they were about to settle down in Dampier's Paris studio.

Unluckily it was an Exhibition Year, one of those years, that is, which,
hateful as they may be to your true Parisian, pour steady streams of gold
into the pockets of fortunate hotel and shop keepers, and which bring a
great many foreigners to Paris who otherwise might never have come. Quite a
number of such comfortable English folk were now looking forward to going
and seeing Nancy Dampier in her new home--of which the very address was
quaint and unusual, for Dampier's studio was situated Impasse des Nonnes.

They were now speeding under and across the vast embracing shadow of the
Opera House. And again Dampier slipped his arm round his young wife. It
seemed to this happy man as if Paris to-night had put on her gala dress to
welcome him, devout lover and maker of beauty, back to her bosom.

"Isn't it pleasant to think," he whispered, "that Paris is the more
beautiful because you now are in it and of it, Nancy?"