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 happen to have it, nor in their husbands. Least of all does a woman appreciate talent in her sons. I will venture to guess that no man ever became a great artist except in the teeth of his mother's opposition. . . My own mother, for instance, though I send her a comfortable sum of money each month, would rather see me a merchant or an advocate at a tenth of the income. . . How about you, Jean? Did your mother persuade you to come to Paris to study art against your own better judgment?"

Jean Duprés grinned a little sheepishly and said:

"I had persuaded one of the girls about the farm to pose for me in the loft where the pears were ripening. My mother found this out—packed the girl off with a bad character which she had not deserved, burned my poor little supply of artist's materials, and I—when it was dark—climbed out of my bedroom window and footed it all the way to Paris. But when I am successful and begin to send money home she will relent."

"What?" asked Armand de Ville, "became of of the girl?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Duprés. "And she was only posing for the head and shoulders."

"My mother," said de Ville, "had the same feeling about my wanting to be an artist. But the priest persuaded her to give me a trial . . . If at