“To Troy—when?”
“No, to Meudon, when you are well. Do you like the country?”
“I love it,” she said.
“Well, I’ll take my easel and my paints along too.”
She looked at him seriously. “You are an artist—I heard that from the concierge.”
“Yes,” said Gethryn, “I think I may claim the title tonight.”
And then he told her about the Salon. She listened and brightened with sympathy. Then she grew silent.
“Do you paint landscapes?”
“Figures,” said the young man, shortly.
“From models?”