“It is not achievement you want, but success.  That is why,” said he.

There was silence for a moment, broken by light footsteps on the stair and a knock.  “My good friends,” cried Mademoiselle Palicsky from the doorway, “have you been quarrelling?” She made a little dramatic gesture to match her words, which brought out every line of a black velvet and white corduroy dress, which would have been a horror upon an Englishwoman.  Upon Mademoiselle Palicsky it was simply an admiration-point of the kind never seen out of Paris, and its effect was instantaneous.  Kendal acknowledged it with a bow of exaggerated deference. “C’est parfait!” he said with humility, and lifted a pile of studies off the nearest chair for her.

Nadie stood still, pouting.  “Monsieur is amused,” she said.  “Monsieur is always amused.  But I have that to tell which monsieur will graciously take au grand servieux.”

“What is it, Nadie?” Elfrida asked, with something like dread in her voice.  Nadie’s air was so important, so rejoiceful.

“Ecoutez donc! I am to send two pictures to the Salon this year.  Carolos Duran has already seen my sketch for one, and he says there is not a doubt—­not a doubt—­that it will be considered.  Your congratulations, both of you, or your hearts’ blood!  For on my word of honor I did not expect it this year.”

“A thousand and one!” cried Kendal, trying not to see Elfrida’s face.  “But if you did not expect it this year, mademoiselle, you were the only one who had so little knowledge of affairs,” he added gaily.

“And now,” Nadie went on, as if he had interrupted her, “I am going to drive in the Bois to see what it will be like when the people in the best carriages turn and say, ’That is Mademoiselle Nadie Palicsky, whose picture has just been bought for the Luxembourg.’”

She paused and looked for a curious instant at Elfrida, and then slipped quickly behind her chair. “Embrasse moi, cherie!” she said, bringing her face with a bird-like motion close to the other girl’s.

Kendal saw an instinctive momentary aversion in the backward start of Elfrida’s head, and from the bottom of his heart he was sorry for her.  She pushed her friend away almost violently.

“No!” she said.  “No!  I am sorry, but it is too childish.  We never kiss each other, you and I. And listen, Nadie:  I am delighted for you, but I have a sick headache—­la migraine, you understand.  And you must go away, both of you—­both of you!” Her voice raised itself in the last few words to an almost hysterical imperativeness.  As they went down the stairs together Mademoiselle Palicsky remarked to Mr. John Kendal, repentant of the good that he had done: 

“So she has consulted her oracle and it has barked out the truth.  Let us hope she will not throw herself into the Seine!”

“Oh no!” Kendal replied.  “She’s horribly hurt but I am glad to believe that she hasn’t the capacity for tragedy.  Somebody,” he added gloomily, “ought to have told her long ago.”