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 trying to paint—not forms or fabrics, but light. Every morning as we have set up our easels I have said, 'Do not forget,' and every afternoon I have said the same thing. That, with a hint or two about mixing his colors, with a little specific statement upon which colors are permanent and which are not, is all that I have had to do. And now what has he done? He has painted a sunlight more warm and limpid and golden than I am able to paint myself."

Sometimes Madame Beaulieu brought a campstool and a parasol and watched the gentlemen paint. Sometimes she would say, "Pretty." More often she came in silence and watched in silence and went away without saying a word. Beaulieu seemed to adore her. If she had faults he was blind to them or explained them away. If she was extravagant, so were all women. If sometimes she lost her temper about nothing at all and made terrific scenes, so did all women.

Whenever he remembered how tender and loying she could be it was easy to forgive all the little failings. At least she was loyal to him, and faithful. And of all good qualities he prized those most highly.

There was a fine old beech tree in a far corner of the park. At certain hours the leaves of this tree broke the light of heaven into thousands of