He glanced quickly at her face for the first time.  “Ah, you are English!” he said.

“No.  I am American.”

His face lightened.  “So am I.”

“I thought so,” she said.

“From my bad French?”

“No.  Because you did not look up to see if the woman you were polite to was old or young.”

He smiled.  “And you, mademoiselle,—­you did not murmur a compliment to the copy over the artist’s back.”

She smiled, too, yet with a little pang over the bread.  But she was relieved to see that he evidently had not recognized her.  “You are modest,” she said; “you do not attempt masterpieces.”

“Oh, no!  The giants like Titian and Corregio must be served with both hands.  I have only one,” he said half lightly, half sadly.

“But you have been a soldier,” she said with quick intuition.

“Not much.  Only during our war,—­until I was compelled to handle nothing larger than a palette knife.  Then I came home to New York, and, as I was no use there, I came here to study.”

“I am from South Carolina,” she said quietly, with a rising color.

He put his palette down, and glanced at her black dress.  “Yes,” she went on doggedly, “my father lost all his property, and was killed in battle with the Northerners.  I am an orphan,—­a pupil of the Conservatoire.”  It was never her custom to allude to her family or her lost fortunes; she knew not why she did it now, but something impelled her to rid her mind of it to him at once.  Yet she was pained at his grave and pitying face.

“I am very sorry,” he said simply.  Then, after a pause, he added, with a gentle smile, “At all events you and I will not quarrel here under the wings of the French eagles that shelter us both.”

“I only wanted to explain why I was alone in Paris,” she said, a little less aggressively.

He replied by unhooking his palette, which was ingeniously fastened by a strap over his shoulder under the missing arm, and opened a portfolio of sketches at his side.  “Perhaps they may interest you more than the copy, which I have attempted only to get at this man’s method.  They are sketches I have done here.”

There was a buttress of Notre Dame, a black arch of the Pont Neuf, part of an old courtyard in the Faubourg St. Germain,—­all very fresh and striking.  Yet, with the recollection of his poverty in her mind, she could not help saying, “But if you copied one of those masterpieces, you know you could sell it.  There is always a demand for that work.”

“Yes,” he replied, “but these help me in my line, which is architectural study.  It is, perhaps, not very ambitious,” he added thoughtfully, “but,” brightening up again, “I sell these sketches, too.  They are quite marketable, I assure you.”

Helen’s heart sank again.  She remembered now to have seen such sketches—­she doubted not they were his—­in the cheap shops in the Rue Poissoniere, ticketed at a few francs each.  She was silent as he patiently turned them over.  Suddenly she uttered a little cry.