The sound of the lawyer's retreating footsteps died away in the distance. Once more a heavy stillness settled down over the gallery. Left to herself, the young girl resumed working with increased vigor. As her brushes moved rapidly, touching places here and there, now seeking fresh color on the palette, now making some spot on the rapidly progressing canvas glow with rich tints, her movements gradually grew more or less mechanical. While her hand kept busy, her thoughts were elsewhere.

She was sorry to leave Paris. Much that she held dear, her friends, the bohemian student life which she loved, she must now give up forever. A new world, new acquaintances claimed her. Yes, Mr. Ricaby was right. It was her duty to go back and do good with the fortune which fate had sent her. She would seek happiness by making others happy. She would use the money left by her father to alleviate the sufferings of the unfortunate. She would build model tenements, endow hospitals and homes for orphaned and crippled children. She would make that her life work. Her face flushed with pleasure as she planned out all that she could do. Mr. Ricaby should be her legal adviser. He would tell her how to invest her fortune to best advantage, so she might do all the good possible. It would reconcile her to leaving Paris if she could devote her life to trying to solve the social problem.

Her thoughts reverted to her childhood days in America. She had a dim recollection of living in a great gloomy house in the outskirts of an ugly, smoky city. At night when she went to bed she could see in the distance tall chimneys belching flame, terrifying tongues of flame that reached almost to the sky. They lived very quietly and saw no one. Her father, reserved and uncommunicative, discouraged callers, and her mother, a French woman, not understanding the language very well, made no acquaintances among her neighbors. Then she went to the convent school where she was educated, and after that they moved to Paris and made a long stay with relatives of her mother. On the return to America they lived quietly for a time in New York, seeing absolutely no one, and it was at this period that she became seriously interested in Settlement work.

She wondered why her father had always insisted on keeping his marriage secret. It was not because he was ashamed of her mother, who came of a distinguished family. He must have been fond of her in his undemonstrative way, for he cried bitterly when she died. For some time he seemed to find comfort in his daughter's companionship, but little by little the man's eccentricities estranged them. Owing to his frequent absences she saw less and less of him until, at last, she asked to be allowed to return to Paris to study art. He readily acquiesced and provided her with a comfortable allowance. To their friend, Leon Ricaby, to whom he handed a long envelope, he had said in her hearing: "This, Mr. Ricaby, contains my last will. I have named you as executor. I have left everything to Paula. If anything happens to me, look after my little girl. Another will, executed years ago, in my brother's favor, is in existence. For reasons of my own I do not wish to destroy that will. It would lead to explanations and unpleasantness I would rather avoid. But this new will post-dates the old one. This is the only valid will." That was only six months ago, and now he, too, was gone.

Thus absorbed in these reflections, Paula did not notice how dangerously her stool tilted on the treacherous, highly polished parquet floor. There was a little spot high up on the canvas which she wanted to reach, so, slightly elevating herself, she leaned forward, palette in one hand, brush extended in the other. Suddenly the stool slipped backwards and she was thrown heavily against the easel which went crashing to the ground, the picture, palette, paint box, and brushes being hurled in all directions. It was all over before she had time to cry out, and the next instant she found herself sitting unceremoniously on the floor in the midst of all the dÉbris.

"Gee! That was a tumble! Not hurt, are you?" exclaimed a man's voice in English.

Paula looked up in amazement. She had heard no footsteps and had no idea that anyone was near. Standing looking down at her, his face trying to suppress a grin, was a young man of about twenty-five. He was rather loudly dressed in a check lounging suit and red tie, and as much by his manner as by his clean-shaven face and clothes she took him for a fellow countryman. "Just like an American's bad breeding to laugh at a woman's misfortune," was her inward indignant comment.

Lifting his hat, he extended his hand to assist her to rise.

"Lucky I happened along, eh?" he grinned.

Paula carefully stretched out her arms to make sure that no bones were broken.

"You didn't prevent my fall," she said ruefully.

"No," he laughed, "but it's given me an excuse to make the acquaintance of a pretty girl."

She tried to look displeased and dignified, but the stranger's impudence and breezy familiarity amused her. He was a clean-cut, rather good-looking boy, and his laugh was not only contagious but positively refreshing after Mr. Ricaby's depressing conversation and funereal countenance.

"How did you know that I understood English?" she inquired.

Pointing to a copy of Galignani's Messenger in which her palette and brushes had been wrapped, he said with a chuckle:

"I saw that—jumped at conclusions—that's all. I'd make good as a Sherlock Holmes, eh, what? Besides, don't you suppose I can spot an American girl when I see one?"

"I'm only half American," she answered, surprised to find herself conversing so glibly with a perfect stranger. "My mother was French. My father was an American."

Noticing that she spoke in the past tense and remarking her mourning dress, he surmised that her parents were dead. She interested him, and it was more sympathy than idle curiosity that prompted the query:

"Where do you live—New York?"

She shook her head.

"No, I live here, or, rather, have done so until quite recently. I'm going to America next Saturday—to live there for good."

"Next Saturday!" he cried, in surprise. "Say, that's odd! I'm going on the Touraine myself!"

"The Touraine—yes—I think that's the name of the boat." Almost apologetically she added: "You see I haven't travelled very much." Looking at him more closely, she inquired:

"You are an American?"

He grinned, showing fine white teeth.

"I try to be. Greatest country on earth. My name's Todhunter Chase—'Tod' for short you know. Everyone calls me Tod. It's hard to be dignified with such a name, ain't it?"

Suddenly the girl caught sight of her painting which, hurled a dozen paces away, was lying face down in the dust.

"Oh, my picture!" she exclaimed anxiously. "I do hope it's not damaged!"

She started forward to pick it up, but Tod, by a quick jump, got there before her.

"No damage done!" he cried triumphantly. With a careless laugh he added: "Anyhow, it's only a picture."

"Only a picture!" she exclaimed indignantly as she clasped the precious canvas to her breast. "Don't you love what is your own? I've worked six long months over it. I wouldn't have anything happen to it for anything in the world. Don't you like pictures?"

He gave a broad grin as he answered:

"Pictures? I'm crazy for 'em—especially the kind engraved on a $500 U.S. Treasury note. I'm perfectly dippy over those."

"Dippy? What's that?" she asked, puzzled.

"Oh—you're not familiar with Broadway slang, are you? Well—'dippy' is most expressive and up to date. It means that one's joy over a certain thing is so keen that the mental faculties are put temporarily out of gear."

She laughed heartily. He was certainly droll, this American. He made her laugh and that in itself was a novel sensation. As she packed up her things, she asked:

"What is your life work?"

"My what?" he gasped.

"Your work. What is your occupation?"

"Oh, you mean what I do for a living?" Puffing out his chest he went on proudly: "I'm in the automobile business, and I'm a cracker jack at it, too. Only been in it a month, but I guess I've made good all right."

She smiled at his unblushing self-conceit.

"Only been at it a month?" she echoed. "Why, what did you do before that?"

The question seemed to embarrass him.

"Oh, I worked hard enough," he replied carelessly. "I got up at noon, had breakfast, played golf or took a spin in the machine, ran in to the club, dressed for dinner, ate, went to a show, back to clubs, played poker till three A.M., back home. Same old thing week in, week out, all through the season. Isn't that hard work?"

"Hard work—yes," she answered quietly. "I should think that very hard work if I had to do it. But I don't think it is exactly the kind of work a self-respecting man should do." Looking him straight in the face, she added: "At least, not the kind of man I would care to know——"

Tod shuffled his feet as if ill at ease. Under the scrutiny of her calm gaze he seemed to lose some of his self-assurance.

"You're dead right!" he stammered nervously. "But what can a fellow do? When one's in a certain set, one has to live as everyone else does." Summoning up courage, he demanded boldly: "If you lived in New York and knew everybody, wouldn't you like to have a jolly good time?"

She shook her head.

"I should live as I want to live," she answered calmly. "My happiness would consist in making others happy. If I were rich, I would go among the poor and try to lighten the burdens of those less fortunate than I."

He laughed scornfully.

"Oh, you're one of those freak suffragettes—a socialist!"

She smiled as she replied:

"I am a Christian—a socialist if you will." There was an amused expression on her face as she asked: "What do you know of socialism?"

"Oh, it's a lot of rot," he retorted. "We see 'em in New York—lazy, wild-eyed guys with dirty faces and long hair, blowing off hot air on Union Square, organizing strikes, throwing bombs, and raising Cain generally. They're usually bums out of a job. As long as they've no money they're rabid socialists; directly they make a little money, they become capitalists. They're fakirs, all right!"

Paula shook her head. Gravely she said:

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea altogether. Socialism is beautiful. It is the one thing that will save mankind from decadence and gradual extinction. I am a socialist because I am a Christian. Christ loved the poor and the lowly. I try to follow in His footsteps."

Tod looked at her in amazement. The kind of girls he was accustomed to associate with talked quite differently. Unconsciously his manner grew more respectful.

"So you're sailing on the Touraine! Say, isn't that a queer coincidence? Awfully nice, though. I'll see you on board, won't I? That'll be jolly." He stopped and hesitated. Then looking at her sheepishly, he said with a grin: "Now, I've told you my name, may I know yours? Rather informal introduction, what?"

Paula hesitated. Was it altogether proper to talk to a stranger in this way? But he seemed such a nice, ingenuous young man. Surely there could be no great harm in it. Before, however, she could reply, her ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps, and at the same instant she heard the big church clock outside striking the half hour. It was Mr. Ricaby returning to take her to lunch. In another moment the lawyer appeared. As he came up he stopped short, as if surprised to find her conversing with a total stranger. Puzzled, he stared from one to the other. Paula quickly explained:

"I had a little mishap. I fell from the stool and this gentleman very kindly came to my assistance." Introducing the two men, she said: "Mr. Leon Ricaby—Mr. Todhunter Chase."

Tod nodded and Mr. Ricaby bowed stiffly. Feeling that he was now in the way, the younger man turned to go. Removing his hat, he asked again:

"Since we're to be fellow passengers on the Touraine, may I not have the pleasure of knowing the name of the lady to whom I was able to be of some assistance?"

Mr. Ricaby frowned disapproval, but Paula, now safely chaperoned, hesitated no longer. Promptly she said:

"My name is Paula Marsh."

Tod could not suppress a start of surprise.

"Marsh!" he echoed. "By Jove! that's another odd coincidence! My stepfather's name is Marsh—Mr. James Marsh, of West Seventy-second Street."

It was now Mr. Ricaby's turn to be astonished.

"Then you are——?" he cried.

"I'm Tod Chase. My mother married Jimmy Marsh. I'm going back home to take part in a family jollification. You know his brother just died, and Jimmy has come in for a windfall."

Paula, who was busy packing her things, had not heard, but Mr. Ricaby quickly gave the young man a significant nudge.

"Hush!" he said. "You're speaking of her father!"

Tod gave a gasp.

"Her father!" he exclaimed.

"Yes—her father," said the lawyer quietly. "John Marsh married her mother—a Frenchwoman—twenty-two years ago. He kept the marriage secret."

Tod gave vent to a low but expressive whistle.

"Then his money——?" he gasped.

"Goes to his daughter, of course," answered the lawyer, with studied calmness.

"But the will——" exclaimed the other. "The will which Bascom Cooley, Jimmy's lawyer, has had in his possession all these years——?"

"Absolutely valueless," replied Mr. Ricaby coolly. "Before he died John Marsh made a new will. I have it safe in my own keeping. We are going to New York to offer it for probate."

This sudden and unexpected revelation was too much for Tod. Rendered speechless, he just stared at the lawyer. Mr. Ricaby continued amiably:

"We sail Saturday. I understand that you are going on the same boat. I'm very glad to have met you, Mr. Chase. It is likely that we shall see a good deal of each other in New York. Miss Marsh and I are just going out to get a bite of lunch. Won't you join us?"

The young man stammered his thanks.

"With pleasure—I——"

Paula went out with Mr. Ricaby close behind. As Tod followed he again whistled to himself significantly:

"Well, I'm d——d! What will Jimmy say to this?"