The girl’s eyes were fastened immovably upon her work as she sat down again, painting rapidly in an ineffectual, meaningless way, with the merest touch of color in her brush.  Her face glowed with the deepest shame that had ever visited her.  Lucien was scolding the Swede roundly; she had disappointed him, he said.  Elfrida felt heavily how impossible it was that she should disappoint him.  And they had all heard—­the English girl in the South Kensington gown, the rich New Yorker, Nadie’s rival the Roumanian, Nadie herself; and they were all, except the last, working more vigorously for hearing.  Nadie had turned her head away, and so far as the back of a neck and the tips of two ears could express oblivion of what had passed, it might have been gathered from hers.  But Elfrida knew better, and she resented the pity of the pretence more than if she had met Mademoiselle Palicsky’s long light gray eyes full of derisive laughter.

For a year she had been in it and of it, that intoxicating life of the Quartier Latin:  so much in it that she had gladly forgotten any former one; so much of it that it had become treason to believe existence supportable under any other conditions.  It was her pride that she had felt everything from the beginning; her instinctive apprehension of all that is to be apprehended in the passionate, fantastic, vivid life on the left side of the Seine had been a conscious joy from the day she had taken her tiny appartement in the Rue Porte Royale, and bought her colors and sketching-block from a dwarf-like little dealer in the next street, who assured her proudly that he supplied Henner and Dagnan-Bouveret, and moreover knew precisely what she wanted from experience. “Moi aussi, mademoiselle, je suis artist!” She had learned nothing, she had absorbed everything.  It seemed to her that she had entered into her inheritance, and that in the possessions that throng the Quartier Latin she was born to be rich.  In thinking this she had an Overpowering realization of the poverty of Sparta, so convincing that she found it unnecessary to tell herself that she would never go back there.  That was the unconscious pivotal supposition in everything she thought or said or did.  After the first bewildering day or two when the exquisite thrill of Paris captured her indefinitely, she felt the full tide of her life turn and flow steadily in a new direction with a delight of revelation and an ecstasy of promise that made nothing in its sweep of every emotion that had not its birth and growth in art, and forbade the mere consideration of anything that might be an obstacle, as if it were a sin.  She entered her new world with proud recognition of its unwritten laws, its unsanctified morale, its riotous overflowing ideals; and she was instant in gathering that to see, to comprehend these was to be thrice blessed, as not to see, not to comprehend them was to dwell in outer darkness with the bourgeois, and the “sandpaper” artists, and others who are without hope.  It