I recalled her in that moment. She had been a student in Thirion’s atelier in Paris, where I had guinea-pigged two or three years earlier during the temporary absence through sickness of its master. Not a very promising pupil, if I remembered; but one, if I must confess it, with an inordinate admiration for the work of the teacher-substitute. But I had liked her, her gaiety, her freshness, her perfectly candid and voluble good-nature; and I was glad—for the moment—to meet her again.
She made a little motion, inviting me to sit beside her, and, as I did so, introduced me to her mother.
“And how about Thirion’s?” I said.
“O!” she answered; “that is all over, and you will never be put to the pains again of sparing me the knowledge of the muff I was.”
“You have abandoned art?”
“Now please to drop it, Mr. Dane. It would be mere pretence, you know, to say I abandoned what wasn’t mine—like jilting a man who had never proposed to you and didn’t mean to. But thank goodness the poor creature was saved any further embarrassment on my account by our coming into money. Yes, that is the glorious truth, and Mother and I have been busy for months in visiting all the places we have ever wanted to see and couldn’t—making up for lost time.”
“Thank you for my part in the benediction.”
“O!” She laughed cheerily. “I learned more from you than from any one; but it was all no good; I remained a rapin to the very end. To see you paint always made me despair.”
“You are not alone in that sentiment. It makes some people even use bad language.”
She looked at me questioningly, quizzically.