Scarcely had she time to glance about her when she heard a voice, saw a face and knew she had found an old friend—the artist who had spoken so interestingly of life, he of the beard, was before her.
“So this is where you work?” She was overjoyed. “And does the great Fernando Tiffin do his work here, too?”
“I am Fernando Tiffin.”
“Oh!” Jeanne swayed a little.
“You see,” the other smiled, putting out a hand to steady her, “I, too, like to study life among those who do not know me; to masquerade a little.”
“Masquerade!” Jeanne started. Did he, then, see through her own pretenses? She flushed.
“But no!” She fortified herself. “How could he know?”
“You promised to tell me more about life.” She hurried to change the subject.
“Ah, yes. How fine! There is yet time.
“You see.” He threw a switch. The place was flooded with light. “The thing that stands before you, the ‘Fairy and the Child,’ it is called. It is a reproduction of a great masterpiece: a perfect reproduction, yet in this light it is nothing; a blare of white, that is all.