Part First
‘Mimi Pinson est une blonde,‘ Une blonde que l‘on connait； Elle n‘a qu‘une robe au monde. Launderirette! et qu‘un bonnet!‘
It was a fine, sunny, showery day in April.

The big studio window was open at the top, and let in a pleasant breeze from the north-west. Things were beginning to look shipshape at last. The big piano, a semi-grand by Broadwood, had arrived from England by ‘the Little Quickness‘ (la Petite Vitesse, as the goods trains are called in France), and lay, freshly tuned, alongside the eastern wall； on the wall opposite was a panoply of foils, masks, and boxing-gloves.

A trapeze, a knotted rope, and two parallel cords, supporting each a ring, depended from a huge beam in the ceiling. The walls were of the usual dull red, relieved by plaster casts of arms and legs and hands and feet； and Dante‘s mask, and Michael Angelo‘s alto-rilievo of Leda and the swan, and a centaur and Lapith from the Elgin Marbles--on none of these had the dust as

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