“Does Julien know her well enough to have discovered a self-evident fact?”

“Only,” pursued my companion, ignoring the question, “she is bored and a little spoiled.”

“So she comes down here to escape being bored and to get more spoiled.”

“Julien won’t spoil her.”

“He certainly doesn’t appear to bore her.”

“She’s having the tables turned on her without knowing it.  Julien is doing her a lot of good.  Already she’s far less beneficent and bountiful and all that sort of stuff.”

“Lassie,” said I, “what, if I may so express myself, is the big idea?”

“Slang is an execrable thing from a professed scholar,” she reproved.  “However, the big idea is that Julien is really painting.  And it’s mine, that big idea.”

“Mightn’t it be accompanied by a little idea to the effect that the experience is likely to cost him pretty dear?  What will be left when Bobbie Holland goes?”

“Pooh!  Don’t be an oracular sphinx,” was all that I got for my pains.

Nor did Miss Bobbie show any immediate symptoms of going.  If the painting seemed at times in danger of stagnation, the same could not be said of the fellowship between painter and paintee.  That nourished along, and one day a vagrant wind brought in the dangerous element of historical personalities.  The wind, entering at the end of a session, displaced a hanging above the studio door, revealing in bold script upon the plastering Beranger’s famous line: 

  “Dans un grenier qu’on est bien a vingt ans!”

“Did you write that there?” asked the girl.

“Seven long years ago.  And meant it, every word.”

“How did you come to know Beranger?”

“I’m French born.”

“‘In a garret how good is life at twenty,’” she translated freely.  “I wouldn’t have thought”—­she turned her softly brilliant regard upon him—­“that life had been so good to you.”

“It has,” was the rejoinder.  “But never so good as now.”

“I’ve often wondered—­you seem to know so many things—­where you got your education?”

“Here and there and everywhere.  It’s only a patchwork sort of thing.”  (Ungrateful young scoundrel, so to describe my two-hours-a-day of brain-hammering, and the free run of my library.)

“You’re a very puzzling person,” said she And when a woman says that to a man, deep has begun to call to deep. (The Bonnie Lassie, who knows everything, is my authority for the statement.)

To her went the patroness of Art, on leaving Julien’s “grenier” that day.

“Cecily,” she said, in the most casual manner she could contrive, “who is Julien Tenney?”

“Nobody.”

“You know what I mean,” pleaded the girl. “What is he?”

“A brand snatched from the pot-boiling,” returned the Bonnie Lassie, quite pleased with her next turn, which was more than her companion was.