He now lost what little interest he had previously taken in his surroundings.  Just before him in a large open space reserved for the boys to play handball was a broken sheet of glistening water reflecting the blue sky, the trees rattled their branches about in the wind, and now and then a tardy leaf fluttered down from where it had clung desperately late into the winter.  The gardens were almost deserted.  It was too early for the throng of beribboned nurses and howling infants who usually haunt its benches.  One or two pedestrians hurried across the garden, evidently taking the route to make shortcuts to their destinations, and not for the pleasure of lounging among its blustery attractions.

After idling an hour on his bench, he went to breakfast with a friend who chanced to live conveniently near, and where he made himself very disagreeable by commenting unfavorably on the work in progress and painting in particular.  Then he brushed himself up and started off for the rue Notre Dame des Champs, where Miss Snell’s studio was situated.  It was one of a number huddled together in an old and rather dilapidated building, and the porter at the entrance gave him minute directions as to its exact location, but after stumbling up three flights of dark stairs he had no trouble in finding it, for Miss Snell’s name, preceded by a number of initials, shone out from a door directly in front of him as he reached the landing.

He knocked, and for several minutes there was a wild scurrying within and a rattle and clash of crockery.  Then Miss Snell appeared at the door, and exclaimed, in delighted surprise: 

“How do you do?  We had quite given you up.”

She looked taller and longer than ever swathed in a blue painting-apron and grasping her palette and brushes.  She had to apologize for not shaking hands with him, because her fingers were covered with paint that had been hastily but ineffectually wiped off on a rag before she answered his knock.

He murmured something about not coming before because of his work, but she would not let him finish, saying, intensely,

“We know how precious every minute is to you.”

Miss Price came reluctantly forward and shook hands; she had evidently not been painting, for her fingers were quite clean.  Short ragged hair once more fell over her forehead, and the Painter felt a shock of disappointment, and wondered why he had thought her so fine when she passed him in the morning.

“I was just going to paint Cora,” announced Miss Snell.  “She is taking a holiday this afternoon, and we were hunting for a pose when you knocked.”

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said, smiling.  “Perhaps I can help.”

Miss Snell was in a flutter at once, and protested that she should be almost afraid to work while he was there.

“In that case I shall leave at once,” he said; but his chair was comfortable, and he made no motion to go.