As the little copyist proceeded with her work, she sent every now and then a responsive glance toward her admirer.  The cultivation of the fine arts appeared to necessitate, to her mind, a great deal of byplay, a great standing off with folded arms and head drooping from side to side, stroking of a dimpled chin with a dimpled hand, sighing and frowning and patting of the foot, fumbling in disordered tresses for wandering hair-pins.  These performances were accompanied by a restless glance, which lingered longer than elsewhere upon the gentleman we have described.  At last he rose abruptly, put on his hat, and approached the young lady.  He placed himself before her picture and looked at it for some moments, during which she pretended to be quite unconscious of his inspection.  Then, addressing her with the single word which constituted the strength of his French vocabulary, and holding up one finger in a manner which appeared to him to illuminate his meaning, “Combien?” he abruptly demanded.

The artist stared a moment, gave a little pout, shrugged her shoulders, put down her palette and brushes, and stood rubbing her hands.

“How much?” said our friend, in English.  “Combien?”

“Monsieur wishes to buy it?” asked the young lady in French.

“Very pretty, splendide.  Combien?” repeated the American.

“It pleases monsieur, my little picture?  It’s a very beautiful subject,” said the young lady.

“The Madonna, yes; I am not a Catholic, but I want to buy it.  Combien?  Write it here.”  And he took a pencil from his pocket and showed her the fly-leaf of his guide-book.  She stood looking at him and scratching her chin with the pencil.  “Is it not for sale?” he asked.  And as she still stood reflecting, and looking at him with an eye which, in spite of her desire to treat this avidity of patronage as a very old story, betrayed an almost touching incredulity, he was afraid he had offended her.  She simply trying to look indifferent, and wondering how far she might go.  “I haven’t made a mistake—­pas insulte, no?” her interlocutor continued.  “Don’t you understand a little English?”

The young lady’s aptitude for playing a part at short notice was remarkable.  She fixed him with her conscious, perceptive eye and asked him if he spoke no French.  Then, “Donnez!” she said briefly, and took the open guide-book.  In the upper corner of the fly-leaf she traced a number, in a minute and extremely neat hand.  Then she handed back the book and took up her palette again.

Our friend read the number:  “2,000 francs.”  He said nothing for a time, but stood looking at the picture, while the copyist began actively to dabble with her paint.  “For a copy, isn’t that a good deal?” he asked at last.  “Pas beaucoup?”

The young lady raised her eyes from her palette, scanned him from head to foot, and alighted with admirable sagacity upon exactly the right answer.  “Yes, it’s a good deal.  But my copy has remarkable qualities, it is worth nothing less.”