or out of fashion--always accompanied her. A tall woman, over fifty, she
moved as if she had been tied together at the knees. Her face was long,
with broad brows, from which her sandy-grey hair was severely waved
back; she had pale eyes, and a perpetual, pale, enigmatic smile.
Her complexion had been ruined by long residence in India, and might
unkindly have been called fawn-coloured. She came close to Harz, keeping
her eyes on his, with her head bent slightly forward.

"We are so pleased to know you," she said, speaking in a voice which had
lost all ring. "It is charming to find some one in these parts who
can help us to remember that there is such a thing as Art. We had Mr.
C---here last autumn, such a charming fellow. He was so interested in
the native customs and dresses. You are a subject painter, too, I think?
Won't you sit down?"

She went on for some time, introducing painters' names, asking
questions, skating round the edge of what was personal. And the young
man stood before her with a curious little smile fixed on his lips. 'She
wants to know whether I'm worth powder and shot,' he thought.

"You wish to paint my nieces?" Mrs. Decie said at last, leaning back on
her settee.

"I wish to have that honour," Harz answered with a bow.

"And what sort of picture did you think of?"

"That," said Harz, "is in the future. I couldn't tell you." And he
thought: 'Will she ask me if I get my tints in Paris, like the woman
Tramper told me of?'