all up on seeing Dubuche take a step towards him; but Sandoz was already holding the architect back, and leading him away.  They passed on with an indifferent air and disappeared into the courtyard of the Louvre without as much as turning round.  They had both just recognised the original of the crayon sketch, which the painter hid away with all the jealousy of a lover.  Christine, who was chattering, had noticed nothing.  Claude, with his heart throbbing, answered her in monosyllables, moved to tears, brimming over with gratitude to his old chums for their discreet behaviour.

A few days later, however, he had another shock.  He did not expect Christine, and had therefore made an appointment with Sandoz.  Then, as she had run up to spend an hour—­it was one of those surprises that delighted them—­they had just withdrawn the key, as usual, when there came a familiar knock with the fist on the door.  Claude at once recognised the rap, and felt so upset at the mishap that he overturned a chair.  After that it was impossible to pretend to be out.  But Christine turned so pale, and implored him with such a wild gesture, that he remained rooted to the spot, holding his breath.  The knocks continued, and a voice called, ‘Claude, Claude!’ He still remained quite still, debating with himself, however, with ashen lips and downcast eyes.  Deep silence reigned, and then footsteps were heard, making the stairs creak as they went down.  Claude’s breast heaved with intense sadness; he felt it bursting with remorse at the sound of each retreating step, as if he had denied the friendship of his whole youth.

However, one afternoon there came another knock, and Claude had only just time to whisper despairingly, ’The key has been left in the door.’

In fact, Christine had forgotten to take it out.  She became quite scared and darted behind the screen, with her handkerchief over her mouth to stifle the sound of her breathing.

The knocks became louder, there was a burst of laughter, and the painter had to reply, ‘Come in.’

He felt more uncomfortable still when he saw Jory, who gallantly ushered in Irma Becot, whose acquaintance he had made through Fagerolles, and who was flinging her youth about the Paris studios.

‘She insisted upon seeing your studio, so I brought her,’ explained the journalist.

The girl, however, without waiting, was already walking about and making remarks, with perfect freedom of manner.  ’Oh! how funny it is here.  And what funny painting.  Come, there’s a good fellow, show me everything.  I want to see everything.’

Claude, apprehensively anxious, was afraid that she might push the screen aside.  He pictured Christine behind it, and felt distracted already at what she might hear.

‘You know what she has come to ask of you?’ resumed Jory cheerfully.  ’What, don’t you remember?  You promised that she might pose for something.  And she’ll do so if you like.’