Lifting his hat, he extended his hand to assist her to rise.
"Lucky I happened along, eh?" he grinned.
Paula carefully stretched out her arms to make sure that no bones were broken.
"You didn't prevent my fall," she said ruefully.
"No," he laughed, "but it's given me an excuse to make the acquaintance of a pretty girl."
She tried to look displeased and dignified, but the stranger's impudence and breezy familiarity amused her. He was a clean-cut, rather good-looking boy, and his laugh was not only contagious but positively refreshing after Mr. Ricaby's depressing conversation and funereal countenance.
"How did you know that I understood English?" she inquired.
Pointing to a copy of Galignani's Messenger in which her palette and brushes had been wrapped, he said with a chuckle:
"I saw that—jumped at conclusions—that's all. I'd make good as a Sherlock Holmes, eh, what? Besides, don't you suppose I can spot an American girl when I see one?"
"I'm only half American," she answered, surprised to find herself conversing so glibly with a perfect stranger. "My mother was French. My father was an American."