“I usually go down for the vendange on our little property,” she told him, “which will be quite soon. But I haven’t decided whether I’ll go this year.”

“Not to be missed,” he said. “I shall have to be in Paris, but I’d much rather join you and pick grapes.”

She also noticed that when she told him where the family vineyard was, he guessed at once exactly which grapes they harvested, and how they made the wine. He knew his subject thoroughly.

And although she wished he were not there, and that she could talk to Frank Hadley instead, she could see that the supremely competent Rémy Monnier would be very interesting indeed to many women.

When they had seen all they wanted of Père Lachaise, Aunt Éloïse announced that she and Marie were going to the charming Parc des Buttes-Chaumont nearby.

“You and Marc will come with us, of course,” she said to Hadley.

“We’ll follow in a cab,” said Gérard.

“So, Hadley,” said Aunt Éloïse with a smile, as the carriage rolled away, “you have been working hard at your painting in France for many months now, and I have never asked you: Are you satisfied with your visit so far? Are you finding what you hoped for?”

“Thanks to this fellow here”—Hadley indicated Marc—“and the kindness of his family, I’ve been more fortunate than I could have dared to hope. Many people come to France and see it from outside, but by getting to know a family, I’ve already learned far more about France than most people do.”

“This is probably true in any country,” said Aunt Éloïse, “but it is especially true in France. And tell me—honestly, I beg you—how you like it here.”

“Oh, I’m in love with it,” Hadley said simply.

“You are?” said Marie.

“I don’t mean that France has no faults. I find people a little too obsessed by their history. But the culture has so much charm, that’s understandable. And nobody can call France old-fashioned. A little slow to adopt mechanical inventions, maybe. But all the new artistic and philosophical ideas are happening here. That’s why all the young American artists come piling in.”

“And what of your own painting?” asked Aunt Éloïse. “Are you making progress?”

“Some.” He hesitated, then smiled a little ruefully. “Not enough.”

“You have talent,” Marc assured him.

“A little, Marc. But not enough. That’s what I’ve learned. I shall study painting all my life, but I’m not going to be a painter. That’s what I needed to find out, and I’ve seen so much already that I know my limitations. I’m not disappointed. I just needed to know.”

“Too soon to give up,” said Marc. “Tell him so, Marie.”