might be found.  He smiled again at the thought of the considerations which Elfrida would put into the balance against the pleasure of seeing him.  They were not humiliating; he was content to swing high on the other side indefinitely; but he admitted to himself that she had taken a pleasure out of Paris for him, and went back to his studio missing it.  He went on missing it for quite two days, at the end of which he received an impetuous visit—­excessively impetuous considering the delay—­from Nadie Palicsky.  In its course Mademoiselle Palicsky declared herself robbed and wronged by “cette incomprise d’Americaine,” whom she loved—­but loved, did he understand?  No, it was not probable that he understood—­what did a man know of love?  As much perhaps as that flame—­Kendal permitted himself the luxury of an open fire.  Nadie stared into it for a moment with cynical eyes.  Under the indirect influence of Kendal’s regard they softened.

“She always understood.  It was a joy to show her anything.  She interpreted Bastien Lepage better than I—­indeed that is true—­but only with her soul, she had no hands.  Yes, I loved her, and she was good for me.  I drew three breaths in her presence for one in her absence.  And she has taken herself away; even in her letter—­I had a line too—­she was as remote as a star!  I hope,” continued Nadie, with innocent candor, as she swung her little feet on the corner of Kendal’s table, “that you do not love her too.  I say prayers to le bon Dieu, about it.  I burn candles.”

“And why?” Kendal asked, with a vigorous twist of his palette knife.

“Because you are such a beast,” she responded calmly, watching his work with her round cleft chin in the shell of her hand.  “That’s not bad, you know.  That nearest girl sitting on the grass is almost felt.  But if you show it to the English they will be so shocked that they will use lorgnettes to hide their confusion.  Ah!” she said, jumping down, “here am I wasting myself upon you, with a carriage a l’heure! You are not worth it,” and she went.  After that it seemed to Kendal that he did not miss Elfrida so much.  Certainly it never occurred to him to hasten his departure by a day on her account, and there came a morning when he drove through Bloomsbury and realized that he had not thought about her for a fortnight.  The British Museum suggested her to him there—­the British Museum, and the certainty that within its massive walls a number of unimaginative young women in collarless sage-green gowns were copying casts of antique sculptures at that moment.  But he did not allow himself to suppose that she could possibly be among them.