away, and scarcely hearing the words spoken to her.

"Oh, pretty little fool! you understand well enough," said Lisette,
grinning, as she rubbed up a melon. "Does he give you fine things? You
might let me see."

"No one gives me anything."

"Chut! you want me to believe that. Why Jules is only a lad, and his
father is a silk mercer, and only gives him a hundred francs a month,
but Jules buys me all I want--somehow--or do you think I would take
the trouble to set my cap straight when he goes by? He gave me these
ear-rings, look. I wish you would let me see what you get."

But Bébée had gone away--unheeding--dreaming of Juliet and of Jeanne
d'Arc, of whom he had told her tales.

He made sketches of her sometimes, but seldom pleased himself.

It was not so easy as he had imagined that it would prove to portray this
little flower-like face, with the clear eyes and the child's open brow.
He who had painted Phryne so long and faithfully had got a taint on his
brush--he could not paint this pure, bright, rosy dawn--he who had always
painted the glare of midnight gas on rouge or rags. Yet he felt that if
he could transfer to canvas the light that was on Bébée's face he would
get what Scheffer had missed. For a time it eluded him. You shall paint a
gold and glistening brocade, or a fan of peacock's feathers, to
perfection, and yet, perhaps, the dewy whiteness of the humble little
field daisy shall baffle and escape you.