Rudyard Kipling 103 of herself and of the things she took interest in, — of Kami, wisest of teachers, and of the girls in the studio, — of the Poles, who will kill themselves with overwork if they are not checked; of the French, who talk at great length of much more than they will ever accomplish; of the slovenly English, who toil hopelessly and cannot understand that inclination does not imply power; of the Americans, whose rasping voices in the hush of a hot afternoon strain tense-drawn nerves to breakingpoint, and whose suppers lead to indigestion; of tempestuous Russians, neither to hold nor to bind, who tell the girls ghost-stories till the girls shriek; of stolid Germans, who come to learn one thing, and, having mastered that much, stolidly go away and copy pictures for evermore. Dick listened enraptured because it was Maisie who spoke. He knew the old life. “It hasn’t changed much,” he said. “Do they still steal colors at lunch-time?” “Not steal. Attract is the word. Of course they do. I’m good — I only attract ultramarine; but there are students who'd attract flake-white.” “T’ve done it myself. You can’t help it when the palettes are hung up. Every color is common property once it runs down, — even though you do start it with a drop of oil. It teaches people not to waste their tubes.” “T should like to attract some of your colors, Dick. Perhaps I might catch your success with them.” “I mustn’t say a bad word, but I should like to. What in the world, which you’ve just missed a lovely chance of seeing, does success or want of success, or a threestoried success, matter compared with — No, I won't open that question again. It’s time to go back to town.” “I’m sorry, Dick, but —” “You’re much more interested in that than you are in me.” “I don’t know, I don’t think J am.”