forth. Love is a matter of propinquity.

The wife of Jean Francois was neutral salts. She desired, no doubt, to do
what was right and best, but she had no insight into her husband's needs,
and was incapable of guessing his latent genius.

As for the new wife's mother and kinsmen, they regarded Jean Francois as
simply lazy, and thought to crowd him into useful industry. He could
paint houses or wagons, and, then, didn't the shipyard folks employ
painters?

Well, I guess so.

Jean Francois still dreamed of art.

He longed to express himself--to picture on canvas the emotions that
surged through his soul.

Disillusionment had come, and he now saw that his wife was his mate only
because the Church and State said so. But his sense of duty was firm, and
the thought of leaving her behind never came to him.

The portraits were painted--the money in his pocket; and to escape the
importunities and jeers of his wife's relatives he decided to try Paris
once more.

The wife was willing. Paris was the gateway to pleasure and ambition.

But the gaiety of Paris was not for her. On a scanty allowance of bread
one can not be so very gay--and often there was no fuel.