“No, I believe I’m not.”

“However, that’s only a small half of the reason,” Miss Elliott went on.  “She’s furious on account of this.”

These were vague words, and I said so.

“Oh, this,” she explained, “my being here; your letting me come.  Impropriety—­all of that!” A sharp whistle issued from her lips.  “Oh! the excoriating things she’s said of my pursuing you!”

“But doesn’t she know that it’s only part of your siege of Madame Brossard’s; that it’s a subterfuge in the hope of catching a glimpse of Oliver Saffren?”

“No!” she cried, her eyes dancing; “I told her that, but she thinks it’s only a subterfuge in the hope of catching more than a glimpse of you!”

I joined laughter with her then.  She was the first to stop, and, looking at me somewhat doubtfully, she said: 

“Whereas, the truth is that it’s neither.  You know very well that I want to paint.”

“Certainly,” I agreed at once.  “Your devotion to ‘your art’ and your hope of spending half an hour at Madame Brossard’s now and then are separable;—­which reminds me:  Wouldn’t you like me to look at your sketch?”

“No, not yet.”  She jumped up and brought her camp-stool over to mine.  “I feel that I could better bear what you’ll say of it after I’ve had some lunch.  Not a syllable of food has crossed my lips since coffee at dawn!”

I spread before her what Amedee had prepared; not sandwiches for the pocket to-day, but a wicker hamper, one end of which we let rest upon her knees, the other upon mine, and at sight of the foie gras, the delicate, devilled partridge, the truffled salad, the fine yellow cheese, and the long bottle of good red Beaune, revealed when the cover was off, I could almost have forgiven the old rascal for his scandal-mongering.  As for my vis-a-vis, she pronounced it a “maddening sight.”

“Fall to, my merry man,” she added, “and eat your fill of this fair pasty, under the greenwood tree.”  Obeying her instructions with right good-will, and the lady likewise evincing no hatred of the viands, we made a cheerful meal of it, topping it with peaches and bunches of grapes.

“It is unfair to let you do all the catering,” said Miss Elliott, after carefully selecting the largest and best peach.

“Jean Ferret’s friend does that,” I returned, watching her rather intently as she dexterously peeled the peach.  She did it very daintily, I had to admit that—­though I regretted to observe indications of the gourmet in one so young.  But when it was peeled clean, she set it on a fresh green leaf, and, to my surprise, gave it to me.

“You see,” she continued, not observing my remorseful confusion, “I couldn’t destroy Elizabeth’s peace of mind and then raid her larder to boot.  That poor lady!  I make her trouble enough, but it’s nothing to what she’s going to have when she finds out some things that she must find out.”