I had been painting in various parts of the forest, studying the early morning along the eastern fringe and moving deeper in as the day advanced.  For the stillness and warmth of noon I went to the very woodland heart, and in the late afternoon moved westward to a glade—­a chance arena open to the sky, the scene of my most audacious endeavours, for here I was trying to paint foliage luminous under those long shafts of sunshine which grow thinner but ruddier toward sunset.  A path closely bordered by underbrush wound its way to the glade, crossed it, then wandered away into shady dingles again; and with my easel pitched in the mouth of this path, I sat at work, one late afternoon, wonderful for its still loveliness.

The path debouched abruptly on the glade and was so narrow that when I leaned back my elbows were in the bushes, and it needed care to keep my palette from being smirched by the leaves; though there was more room for my canvas and easel, as I had placed them at arm’s length before me, fairly in the open.  I had the ambition to paint a picture here—­to do the whole thing in the woods from day to day, instead of taking notes for the studio—­and was at work upon a very foolish experiment:  I had thought to render the light—­broken by the branches and foliage—­with broken brush-work, a short stroke of the kind that stung an elder painter to swear that its practitioners painted in shaking fear of the concierge appearing for the studio rent.  The attempt was alluring, but when I rose from my camp-stool and stepped back into the path to get more distance for my canvas, I saw what a mess I was making of it.  At the same time, my hand, falling into the capacious pocket of my jacket, encountered a package, my lunch, which I had forgotten to eat, whereupon, becoming suddenly aware that I was very hungry, I began to eat Amedee’s good sandwiches without moving from where I stood.

Absorbed, gazing with abysmal disgust at my canvas, I was eating absent-mindedly—­and with all the restraint and dignity of a Georgia darky attacking a watermelon—­when a pleasant voice spoke from just behind me.

“Pardon, monsieur; permit me to pass, if you please.”

That was all it said, very quietly and in French, but a gunshot might have startled me less.

I turned in confusion to behold a dark-eyed lady, charmingly dressed in lilac and white, waiting for me to make way so that she could pass.

Nay, let me leave no detail of my mortification unrecorded:  I have just said that I “turned in confusion”; the truth is that I jumped like a kangaroo, but with infinitely less grace.  And in my nervous haste to clear her way, meaning only to push the camp-stool out of the path with my foot, I put too much valour into the push, and with horror saw the camp-stool rise in the air and drop to the ground again nearly a third of the distance across the glade.

Upon that I squeezed myself back into the bushes, my ears singing and my cheeks burning.