Well, I'll have a look-see at this young De Maupassant. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. He lost control of the machine, was upset and nearly killed.
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