The gentleman in whom we are interested understood no French, but I have said he was intelligent, and here is a good chance to prove it.  He apprehended, by a natural instinct, the meaning of the young woman’s phrase, and it gratified him to think that she was so honest.  Beauty, talent, virtue; she combined everything!  “But you must finish it,” he said.  “Finish, you know;” and he pointed to the unpainted hand of the figure.

“Oh, it shall be finished in perfection; in the perfection of perfections!” cried mademoiselle; and to confirm her promise, she deposited a rosy blotch in the middle of the Madonna’s cheek.

But the American frowned.  “Ah, too red, too red!” he rejoined.  “Her complexion,” pointing to the Murillo, “is—­more delicate.”

“Delicate?  Oh, it shall be delicate, monsieur; delicate as Sevres biscuit.  I am going to tone that down; I know all the secrets of my art.  And where will you allow us to send it to you?  Your address?”

“My address?  Oh yes!” And the gentleman drew a card from his pocket-book and wrote something upon it.  Then hesitating a moment he said, “If I don’t like it when it it’s finished, you know, I shall not be obliged to take it.”

The young lady seemed as good a guesser as himself.  “Oh, I am very sure that monsieur is not capricious,” she said with a roguish smile.

“Capricious?” And at this monsieur began to laugh.  “Oh no, I’m not capricious.  I am very faithful.  I am very constant.  Comprenez?”

“Monsieur is constant; I understand perfectly.  It’s a rare virtue.  To recompense you, you shall have your picture on the first possible day; next week—­as soon as it is dry.  I will take the card of monsieur.”  And she took it and read his name:  “Christopher Newman.”  Then she tried to repeat it aloud, and laughed at her bad accent.  “Your English names are so droll!”

“Droll?” said Mr. Newman, laughing too.  “Did you ever hear of Christopher Columbus?”

“Bien sur!  He invented America; a very great man.  And is he your patron?”

“My patron?”

“Your patron-saint, in the calendar.”

“Oh, exactly; my parents named me for him.”

“Monsieur is American?”

“Don’t you see it?” monsieur inquired.

“And you mean to carry my little picture away over there?” and she explained her phrase with a gesture.

“Oh, I mean to buy a great many pictures—­beaucoup, beaucoup,” said Christopher Newman.

“The honor is not less for me,” the young lady answered, “for I am sure monsieur has a great deal of taste.”

“But you must give me your card,” Newman said; “your card, you know.”

The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said, “My father will wait upon you.”

But this time Mr. Newman’s powers of divination were at fault.  “Your card, your address,” he simply repeated.