She did not see him again for several days.  The preparation for her examination left her no time, and her earnest concentration in her work fully preoccupied her thoughts.  She was surprised, but not disturbed, on the day of the awards to see him among the audience of anxious parents and relations.  Miss Helen Maynard did not get the first prize, nor yet the second; an accessit was her only award.  She did not know until afterwards that this had long been a foregone conclusion of her teachers on account of some intrinsic defect in her voice.  She did not know until long afterwards that the handsome painter’s nervousness on that occasion had attracted even the sympathy of some of those who were near him.  For she herself had been calm and collected.  No one else knew how crushing was the blow which shattered her hopes and made her three years of labor and privation a useless struggle.  Yet though no longer a pupil she could still teach; her master had found her a small patronage that saved her from destitution.  That night she circled up quite cheerfully in her usual swallow flight to her nest under the eaves, and even twittered on the landing a little over the condolences of the concierge—­who knew, mon Dieu! what a beast the director of the Conservatoire was and how he could be bribed; but when at last her brown head sank on her pillow she cried—­just a little.

But what was all this to that next morning—­the glorious spring morning which bathed all the roofs of Paris with warmth and hope, rekindling enthusiasm and ambition in the breast of youth, and gilding even much of the sordid dirt below.  It seemed quite natural that she should meet Major Ostrander not many yards away as she sallied out.  In that bright spring sunshine and the hopeful spring of their youth they even laughed at the previous day’s disappointment.  Ah! what a claque it was, after all!  For himself, he, Ostrander, would much rather see that satin-faced Parisian girl who had got the prize smirking at the critics from the boards of the Grand Opera than his countrywoman!  The Conservatoire settled things for Paris, but Paris wasn’t the world!  America would come to the fore yet in art of all kinds—­there was a free academy there now—­there should be a Conservatoire of its own.  Of course, Paris schooling and Paris experience weren’t to be despised in art; but, thank heaven! she had that, and no directors could take it from her!  This and much more, until, comparing notes, they suddenly found that they were both free for that day.  Why should they not take advantage of that rare weather and rarer opportunity to make a little suburban excursion?  But where?  There was the Bois, but that was still Paris.  Fontainebleau?  Too far; there were always artists sketching in the forest, and he would like for that day to “sink the shop.”  Versailles?  Ah, yes!  Versailles!