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 knew so many things that Grover needed to know. The difference between Frenchmen and us, he was thinking, is that they are born with an ability to take for granted facts which we spend a lifetime in merely becoming aware of. And he desperately hoped, as he ordered the drinks, that Vaudreuil would not too quickly plumb the chasms of his own ignorance.

Carefully he brought the talk back to painting, and sought counsel as to a master. He was a little discouraged at the outlook for himself, for, if Vaudreuil could be believed, it was highly dangerous to "study" under any master, even the best,—whoever the best might be, and opinions seemed to differ collosally on this vital point. Our American need, he was thinking, to classify everything into worsts and bests!

"But you must have worked under a good man yourself," he argued, "to have acquired such a high degree of subtlety as one can detect even in your ten-minute sketches."

"I have never worked in my life," affirmed Vaudreuil with an air of fatigue that lent weight to the statement. "The object of work is to be able to pay your bills. I have very few bills, and there is always somebody willing to pay them."

"Will there always be?"

"There isn't any always."

Already stalled in low gear, thought Grover. And in the back of his mind he was avidly wondering what could be at the foundation of such a laconic philosophy.