She chose mimosa, and he bought a great mass of the fragrant golden boughs, and a bunch of violets for her.
Camille knew a good many people in Rome, and all those he had asked came. The Prix de Rome men were the first arrivals. They came in a body, and on the stroke of the hour named on the invitation cards. Camille watched their faces eagerly as they crowded in and came to a stand before his picture; they knew, and if they approved he cared little for the verdict of all Rome.
Gontrand was the first to break rather a long silence.
“Delicious!” he cried. “It is a triumph.”
Camille flushed with pleasure as the others echoed him.
“The scheme of whites,” “The fine quality,” “So pure.”
One after the other they went across the room to talk to the model, who stood by the tea-table waiting to serve them.
“You are wonderful, mademoiselle. If only you would sit for me I might hope to achieve something too.”
“When M’sieur Michelin has done with me,” she said. “You like the picture?”