Seated now on a moonlit lawn, before his sketching easel, this optimistic young man, whose name was Barres, continued to observe the movements of a dim white figure which had emerged from the villa opposite, and was now stealing toward him across the dew-drenched grass.
When the white figure was quite near it halted, holding up filmy skirts and peering intently at him.
“May one look?” she inquired, in that now celebrated voice of hers, through which ever seemed to sound a hint of hidden laughter.
“Certainly,” he replied, rising from his folding camp stool.
She tiptoed over the wet grass, came up beside him, gazed down at the canvas on his easel.
“Can you really see to paint? Is the moon bright enough?” she asked.
“Yes. But one has to be familiar with one’s palette.”
“Oh. You seem to know yours quite perfectly, monsieur.”