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decorous half-dazed children from the adjacent parochial school. The windows at the back were barred, since the day when Hjalmar had absent-mindedly heaved a painting of a male nude down into the yard just a moment before the children were turned loose by the nuns, three of whom suffered nervous breakdowns. From that time on, no matter how enraged he became because of the inadequacy of his works, Hjalmar was careful to chuck the discarded paintings northward, toward the street. Of course, not a few of these sailed all the way across and rested on the sooty roofs and before coming to rest tore out aerials and clay chimneys. But that was considered by all concerned the lesser of two evils.
    The studio was a huge one, having one small corner set off by curtains for sleeping purposes, and a small gas stove and a wooden table in another corner called the kitchen. The plaster walls were bare, marred by stains of rainwater and bearing scars of nails from which canvases had now and then been hung. The works of Jansen, in what might be termed his ‘Paris period’, were stacked against the radiator, which never got even warm. Hjalmar had northern blood in his veins. The lack of steam heat did not trouble him, but it was a trial to poor Maggie, who, except in the hottest days of summer, had to watch herself to keep her teeth from chattering.
    On the evening Weiss had promised to inspect Hjalmar’s paintings, which also was the day set for the annual dinner of the Société des Artistes Français , Miriam was again assigned to the task of keeping Gring out of the play. When she joined him on the Dôme terrasse she found him in a tremulous state.
    â€˜Er, oil, my darling.... Oil, my dear. Don’t you think you should cable your father?’ Ambrose began, and the sound of his words confused him. He had intended to lead up to the subject tactfully.
    â€˜There’s plenty of time for cabling, although I don’t know what I shall say to dad,’ she said. ‘Just think, in Montana it’s only about six o’clock in the morning. How I miss the ranch, sometimes. The shorthorns and the buckaroos, the sagebrush and the cactus. What a pity it is that Montparnasse is not in Nevada, just across the state line. One could rope a broncho....’
    At this Ambrose shuddered.
    â€˜One could rope a broncho,’ she continued, steadying her glass so that Ambrose’s shuddering would not spill crême de menthe on her dress. ‘One could ride for hours across the prairie and the hills, and tie up at the Dôme. That would be living.’
    â€˜I got a very disturbing tip about oil, straight from one who knows,’ Ambrose mumbled.
    â€˜Perhaps father should sell the petroleum and invest in olive oil. Shall I cable him to do that?’
    In his eagerness, Gring did upset the crême de menthe , but Miriam was too quick for him, and got out of harm’s way in time.
    â€˜Nothing hasty,’ he said imploringly. ‘Oh, dear. I’m so nervous this afternoon. I feel as if something were going to happen, as if the people we know were looking at me strangely, as if nothing were safe....’
    To get him safely away, she suggested a walk in the Luxembourg gardens.
    Their departure was the signal for a general exodus in the direction of the rue Montparnasse. At Evans’ suggestion, a half-finished canvas was on the easel, wet. Hjalmar had wet it that same afternoon. The paintings to be exhibited were not stacked neatly but were ranged around the huge room with an air of nonchalance and abundance. Only Evans, who was to select them and place them on the easel, knew exactly how they had been arranged. He had placed them, from left to right, in the order of their merit, as best he could decide, so that the year’s progress would be evident. His own portrait of Hjalmar, however, he had placed at the end of the stack, not because he thought it was the best. He could not judge it at all.