"Do you really mean that?"
He said most seriously:
"Yes, I can frankly say I haven't seen a portrait in a long time which impressed me so much."
His praise was not in Latin Quarter vernacular, and coming from a Philistine, had only a certain value to the artist. But to a lonely stranded girl the words were balm. Bulstrode, in his immaculate dress, his conventional manner, was as foreign a person to the Bohemian student as if he had been an inhabitant of another planet. Her speech was brusque and quick, with a generous burr in her "rs" when she replied.
"I've studied at Julian's two years now. This was my Salon picture, but it didn't get in."
"If one can judge by those that did"—Bulstrode's tact was delightful—"you should feel honorably refused. I suppose you are at work on another portrait?"
The face which his interest had brightened clouded.
"No, I'm going home—to Idaho—I'm not painting any more."
All the tragedy to a whole-souled Latin Quarter art student that this implied was not revealed to Bulstrode, but, as it was, his sensitive kindness felt so much already that it ached. He hastened toward his goal with eagerness:
"I'm so awfully sorry! Because, do you know, I was going to ask you if you couldn't possibly paint my portrait?" It came from him on the spur of the moment. His frank eyes met hers and might have quailed at his hypocrisy, but the expression of joy on her face, eclipsing everything else, dazzled him.