Here was an atmosphere he had not anticipated.

A soft, if faded, carpet covered the floor; a fine old buffet stood against the wall; antique carved chairs were drawn up to a massive table that had obviously known more spacious surroundings; while upon the walls, from floor to ceiling, were pictures--pictures of all sizes, pictures obviously from the same hand, on the heavy gold frames of which the name 'L.

Salas' stood out conspicuously in proof of former publicity.
"Madame!" He turned to the sad-faced woman, the enthusiasm of a fellow-craftsman instantly kindled.

"Madame! You are an artist?
This is your work ?" The woman caught the sympathy, caught the fire of interest, and a faint flush warmed her cheek.
"Alas, no, monsieur! I am not artistic.

It is my husband who is the creator of these." She waved her hand proudly toward the walls.