She was seventeen, scarcely more than a child, with clear, blue eyes that seemed too large for her body, very timid and appealing.  It is true she seldom expressed an opinion, but she listened to every one with a flattering smile, and the reputations of brilliant talkers have been built on less.  She had a way of passing her two arms about Rantoul’s great one and clinging to him in a weak, dependent way that was quite charming.

When Cyrus Glover was informed that his daughter intended to marry a dauber in paints, he started for Paris on ten hours’ notice.  But Mrs. Glover who was just as resolved on social conquests as Glover was in controlling the plate-glass field, went down to meet him at the boat, and by the time the train entered the St. Lazare Station, he had been completely disciplined and brought to understand that a painter was one thing and that a Rantoul, who happened to paint, was quite another.  When he had known Rantoul a week; and listened open-mouthed to his eloquent schemes for reordering the universe, and the arts in particular, he was willing to swear that he was one of the geniuses of the world.

The wedding took place shortly, and Cyrus Glover gave the bridegroom a check for $100,000, “so that he wouldn’t have to be bothering his wife for pocketmoney.”  Herkimer was the best man, and the Quarter attended in force, with much outward enthusiasm.  The bride and groom departed for a two-year’s trip around the world, that Rantoul might inspire himself with the treasures of Italy, Greece, India, and Japan.

Every one, even Herkimer, agreed that Rantoul was the luckiest man in Paris; that he had found just the wife who was suited to him, whose fortune would open every opportunity for his genius to develop.

“In the first place,” said Bennett, when the group had returned to Herkimer’s studio to continue the celebration, “let me remark that in general I don’t approve of marriage for an artist.”

“Nor I,” cried Chatterton, and the chorus answered, “Nor I.”

“I shall never marry,” continued Bennett.

“Never,” cried Chatterton, who beat a tattoo on the piano with his heel to accompany the chorus of assent.

“But—­I add but—­in this case my opinion is that Rantoul has found a pure diamond.”

“True!”

“In the first place, she knows nothing at all about art, which is an enormous advantage.”

“Bravo!”

“In the second place, she knows nothing about anything else, which is better still.”

“Cynic!  You hate clever women,” cried Jacobus.

“There’s a reason.”

“All the same, Bennett’s right.  The wife of an artist should be a creature of impulses and not ideas.”

“True.”

“In the third place,” continued Bennett, “she believes Rantoul is a demigod.  Everything he will do will be the most wonderful thing in the world, and to have a little person you are madly in love with think that is enormous.”