She was the daughter of an artist who, after years of struggle, died at the moment when fortune was beginning to smile upon him.  Ten years more of work, and he would have left his family, if not rich, at least in comfortable circumstances.  In reality, he left nothing but ruin.  The hotel he built was sold, and, after the debts were paid, nothing remained but some furniture.  His widow, son, and daughter must work.  The widow, having no trade, took in sewing; the son left college to become the clerk of a money-lender named Caffie; the daughter, who, happily for her, had learned to draw and paint under her father’s direction, obtained pupils, and designed menacs for the stationers, and painted silk fans and boxes.  They lived with great economy, submitting to many privations.  The brother, weary of his monotonous existence and of the exactions of his master, left them to try his fortunes in America.

If Saniel ever married, which he doubted, certainly he would not marry a woman situated as Phillis was.

This reflection was reassuring, and he was more devoted to her.  Why should he not enjoy the delicious pleasure of seeing her and listening to her?  His life was neither gay nor happy; he felt perfectly sure of himself, and, as he knew her now, he was also sure of her—­a brave and honest girl.  Otherwise, how had she divined that he loved her?

They continued to see each other with a pleasure that seemed equal on both sides, meeting in the station, arranging to take the same trains, and talking freely and gayly.

Things went on this way until the approach of vacation, when they decided to take a walk after their last lesson, instead of returning immediately to Paris.

When the day came the sun was very hot; they had walked some distance, when Phillis expressed a wish to rest for a few minutes.  They seated themselves in a shady copse, and soon found themselves in each other’s arms.

Since then Saniel had never spoken of marriage, and neither had Phillis.

They loved each other.

CHAPTER VII

A LITTLE DINNER FOR TWO

Saniel was still at work when Phillis returned.

“You have not yet finished, dear?”

“Give me time to cure, by correspondence, a malady that has not yielded to the care of ten physicians, and I am yours.”

In three lines he finished the letter, and left his desk.

“I am ready.  What shall I do?”

“Help me to take things out of my pockets.”

“Don’t press too hard,” she said as he took each parcel.

At last the pockets were empty.

“Where shall we dine?” she asked.

“Here, as the dining-room is transformed into a laboratory.”

“Then let us begin by making a good fire.  I wet my feet coming from the station.”

“I do not know whether there is any wood.”