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 drank chocolate made with water instead of milk.

Anne was charming and made herself very much at home. When she had turned all of Edward's canvases so that she could look at them she began to praise him. She said that he was a wonder, that she had worked in all the studios and ought to know. What was he going to send to this year's Salon? He told her about his bridge with the fog and the stars and the nymphs dancing.

She objected.

"Nymphs don't dance all the time," she said. "That is in pictures they always dance; but in real life they behave like real people."

"They would, of course, wouldn't they?" Edward agreed. And his face lighted with enthusiasm. She had given him a notion. He began to haul out his sketches for the bridge, but there was no angle which suited him, so that he had to use gestures to convey to her what was in his mind.

"Listen," he said. "Imagine that you have gone down to the river's edge and that the bridge, of course, is above you. There is an incline near the first arch, an incline of small cobblestones that dips into the river. Three shop-girls tempted by the heat and almost hidden by the fog are going for a swim. They are giggling for fear that someone will catch them at it—and, if it isn't the policeman, they don't care too much. Beyond and