the cost of the model's fee? — That suits me very well, I answered; I have no intention of binding myself to a private acad-emy... We can work before noon at your place, where the light is better than at mine, and in the afternoon and evening frequent the free art institutes... and wher-ever the model pleases us, we pay the fee and work as we please... — Splendid, splendid... That is a grand arrangement. And we must visit the Paris museums and the public and private exhibitions, so as to acquaint ourselves with the artistic movement... It seems to me there is in Paris today something like a revolution in the art of painting. A mad revolution. No! Art is not a plaything... Art, like writing, is a means of expressing feeling... I shall soon write a study on this subject, Youssef. A chance glance took me to our fair-haired neighbor, and there she was, paying the waitress the price of her lunch and making ready to leave... She moved off with her slender figure, having gathered her gray shawl and the book to her breast... And as she passed before our table she bowed and greeted us graciously, without smiling or saying a word... and vanished into the crowds... The experience pleased us, and Gibran commented upon it: — Now that acquaintance has been made, even without words, it concerns us to determine for whom the greeting was meant, I wonder — for me, or for you? — In any case, we shall not fight a duel over it! And on the margin of this 'visual' acquain-tance Gibran fell to comparing and drawing likenesses: how the stars in the wide expanse draw near one another and then draw apart... I asked him in jest: — And if a col-lision should occur? Gibran smiled and said: — That is a fascinating subject for a romantic story which

I have long had a mind to write, and I am now in search of my heroes... I like, for instance, the type of Balzac! The waitress came bearing the fruit plate, and Gibran asked her: — Enlighten us, Georgette, with what you know about the lady of the gray shawl? — She is Mademoiselle Olga. Russian, I believe. She studies at the Sorbonne. The book never leaves her hand. Poor thing... she keeps company with no one. Gibran resumed his talk of Balzac: how he would roam the streets of old Paris by night, gathering impressions, to return to his room just before dawn: he would put on Oriental dress, let down the damask curtains over the windows and doors, and settle down to write... and drink coffee — in this posture Rodin portrayed him; but the statue did not win full favor until half a century later, on the morrow of

its being raised upon a pedestal at the meeting of the Boulevard Raspail and Montparnasse, when it became one of the most splendid monuments in Paris! The next day we returned to the same restaurant and sat where we had sat the day before, eating, arranging our affairs, and conversing on matters of literature and art. And Miss Olga came in, swaying along with her straight, tall figure, clasping the gray shawl and the book together to her breast, searching with her eyes for a free table to take refuge at. It was a widespread custom in the restaurants of the Latin Quarter in those days, when they grew crowded with patrons, for people to share the tables with one another without ceremony... — Invite her, Youssef! — You invite her, Gibran! And while we were deep in our hesitation, it appeared

that Miss Olga was braver

As she passed before our table she bowed and greeted us graciously