I was careful to arrive on market day and to get there at the right time.

I reached the market square and looked at it.
Then I asked a gendarme where it was.
He said it was there--that I was in it.
I said, "I don't mean this one, I want the other one, the picturesque one." He said it was the only market square they had.

I took the postcard from my pocket.
"Where are all the girls ?" I asked him.
"What girls ?" he demanded.
The Artist's Dream.
"Why, these girls;" I showed him the postcard, there ought to have been about a hundred of them.

There was not a plain one among the lot.

Many of them I should have called beautiful.