the latest song of the cafe chantant was whistled by the blue-bloused
workman on the scaffolding hard by. The breath of Paris, of youth, of
blended work and play, of ambition, of joyous freedom, again filled her
and mingled with the scent of the mignonette that used to stand on the
old window-ledge.
"I am glad you like it. I have only just put it up."
It was the voice of Sir James--a voice that had regained a little of
its naturalness--a calm, even lazy English voice--confident from the
experience of years of respectful listeners. Yet it somehow jarred upon
her nerves with its complacency and its utter incongruousness to her
feelings. Nevertheless, the impulse to know more about the sketch was
the stronger.
"Do you mean you have just bought it?" asked Helen. "It's not English?"
"No," said Sir James, gratified with his companion's interest. "I bought
it in Paris just after the Commune."
"From the artist?" continued Helen, in a slightly constrained voice.
"No," said Sir James, "although I knew the poor chap well enough. You
can easily see that he was once a painter of great promise. I rather
think it was stolen from him while he was in hospital by those
incendiary wretches. I recognized it, however, and bought for a few
francs from them what I would have paid HIM a thousand for."
"In hospital?" repeated Helen dazedly.
"Yes," said Sir James. "The fact is it was the ending of the usual
Bohemian artist's life. Though in this case the man was a real
artist,--and I believe, by the way, was a countryman of yours."
"In hospital?" again repeated Helen. "Then he was poor?"
"Reckless, I should rather say; he threw himself into the fighting
before Paris and was badly wounded. But it was all the result of the
usual love affair--the girl, they say, ran off with the usual richer
man. At all events, it ruined him for painting; he never did anything
worth having afterwards."
"And now?" said Helen in the same unmoved voice.
Sir James shrugged his shoulders. "He disappeared. Probably he'll turn
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