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‘Will you promise?’
When he had done this, she told him how an art-student
who had a room on the floor above her—but she interrupt-
ed herself.
‘Why don’t you go in for art? You paint so prettily.’
‘Not well enough for that.’
‘That is for others to judge. Je m’y connais, and I believe
you have the making of a great artist.’
‘Can’t you see Uncle William’s face if I suddenly told him
I wanted to go to Paris and study art?’
‘You’re your own master, aren’t you?’
‘You’re trying to put me off. Please go on with the story.’
Miss Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-stu-
dent had passed her several times on the stairs, and she had
paid no particular attention. She saw that he had fine eyes,
and he took off his hat very politely. And one day she found
a letter slipped under her door. It was from him. He told
her that he had adored her for months, and that he waited
about the stairs for her to pass. Oh, it was a charming let-
ter! Of course she did not reply, but what woman could help
being flattered? And next day there was another letter! It
was wonderful, passionate, and touching. When next she
met him on the stairs she did not know which way to look.
And every day the letters came, and now he begged her to
see him. He said he would come in the evening, vers neuf
heures, and she did not know what to do. Of course it was
impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never
open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tin-
kling of the bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her.

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