” She batted his arms and slapped him, angrily twisting from his grasp. ” “I am afraid,” she murmured, “that it would be difficult. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The water was cold but she waded deeper. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. It might prove rewarding. " Downstairs he sought the hotel manager. It was. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention.
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