"What is Time?" demanded the painter. And she was not prepared with a
reply.

"Your comrades will be strangers to me," she argued.

"It is a fact that now I wish they were not coming," acknowledged the
host; "but they are young men of the loftiest genius, and some day it
may provide a piquant anecdote to relate how you met them all in the
period of their obscurity."

"My friend," she said, hurt, "if I consented, it would not be to garner
anecdotes."

"Ah, a million regrets!" he cried; "I spoke foolishly."

"It was tactless."

"Yes--I am a man. Do you forgive?"

"Yes--I am a woman. Well, I must take my bonnet off!"

"Oh, you are not a woman, but an angel! What beautiful hair you have!
And your hands, how I should love to paint them!"

"I have painted them, myself--with many preparations. My hands have
known labour, believe me; they have washed up plates and dishes, and
often the dishes had provided little to eat."

"Poor girl! One would never suspect that you had struggled like that."