"What is the picture to be, monsieur?"
"It is an idea caught last night in a cabaret. It would not interest you."
"And why not?"
Max shrugged his shoulders, and went on blocking in his picture.
"Because it is a psychological study—a side-issue of existence. Nothing to do with the crude facts of life."
"Oh!" Jacqueline drew in her breath softly. "I am only interested, then, in the crude facts? How do you arrive at that conclusion, monsieur?"
"By observation, mademoiselle."
"And what have you observed?"
"It is difficult to say—in words. In a picture I would put it like this—a blue sky, a meadow of rank green grass, a stream full of forget-me-nots, and a girl bending over it, with eyes the color of the flowers. Conventionality would compel me to call it Spring or Youth!" He spoke fast and he spoke contemptuously.
She watched him, her head still characteristically drooping, the little wise smile hovering about her lips.