"You have not forgotten me ?" she asked.
"I shall never forget you," said Newman.

"You may be sure of that." "Oh," said the young girl, "there are a great many different ways of remembering a person." And she looked straight at Valentin de Bellegarde, who was looking at her as a gentleman may when a "verdict" is expected of him.
"Have you painted anything for me ?" said Newman.

"Have you been industrious ?" "No, I have done nothing." And taking up her palette, she began to mix her colors at hazard.
"But your father tells me you have come here constantly." "I have nowhere else to go! Here, all summer, it was cool, at least." "Being here, then," said Newman, "you might have tried something." "I told you before," she answered, softly, "that I don't know how to paint." "But you have something charming on your easel, now," said Valentin, "if you would only let me see it." She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the back of the canvas--those hands which Newman had called pretty, and which, in spite of several paint-stains, Valentin could now admire.

"My painting is not charming," she said.
"It is the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle," quoth Valentin, gallantly.
She took up her little canvas and silently passed it to him.

He looked at it, and in a moment she said, "I am sure you are a judge." "Yes," he answered, "I am." "You know, then, that that is very bad." "Mon Dieu," said Valentin, shrugging his shoulders "let us distinguish." "You know that I ought not to attempt to paint," the young girl continued.
"Frankly, then, mademoiselle, I think you ought not." She began to look at the dresses of the two splendid ladies again--a point on which, having risked one conjecture, I think I may risk another.