Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added, “And give my dearest love to Cécile!” As he disappeared in the rue d’Assas, the girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering Hastings, looked at him and shook her head.
“Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly hair-brained,” she smiled, “it is embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his success at the Salon?”
He looked puzzled and she noticed it.
“You have been to the Salon of course?”
“Why no,” he answered, “I only arrived in Paris three days ago.”
She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued: “Nobody imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on varnishing day, the Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur Clifford, who strolled about as bland as you please with an orchid in his buttonhole, and a beautiful picture on the line.”
She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain.
“Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Mon- sieur Julian was so astonished that he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and actually forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy,” she continued with much merriment, “fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back.”
Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau, looked at her with respect. “May I ask,” he said diffidently, “whether you are a pupil of Monsieur Bouguereau?”
“I,” she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was he permitting
