a calamity."

"Madame Aurore," demurred the painter, with a bow, "your own business
is but a sister art. In your atelier, the saffron of a bad complexion
blooms to the fairness of a rose, and the bunch of a lumpy figure is
modelled to the grace of Galatea. With me it will be a different pair
of shoes; I shall be condemned to perch on a stool in the office of a
wine-merchant, and invoice vintages which my thirty francs a week will
not allow me to drink. No comparison can be drawn between your lot and
my little."

"Certainly I should not like to perch," she confessed.

"Would you rejoice at the thirty francs a week?"

"Well, and the thirty francs a week are also poignant. But you may
rise, monsieur; who shall foretell the future? Once I had to make both
ends meet with less to coax them than the salary you mention. Even when
my poor husband was taken from me--heigho!" she raised a miniature
handkerchief delicately to her eyes--"when I was left alone in the
world, monsieur, my affairs were greatly involved--I had practically
nothing but my resolve to succeed."

"And the witchery of your personal attractions, madame," said the
painter politely.

"Ah!" A pensive smile rewarded him. "The business was still in its
infancy, monsieur; yet to-day I have the smartest clientele in Paris. I
might remove to the rue de la Paix to-morrow if I pleased. But, I say,
why should I do that? I say, why a reckless rental for the sake of a