‘Of course I will,’ said Irma.

‘The fact is,’ replied Claude, in an embarrassed tone, ’my picture here will take up all my time till the Salon.  I have a figure in it that gives me a deal of trouble.  It’s impossible to perfect it with those confounded models.’

Irma had stationed herself in front of the picture, and looked at it with a knowing air.  ‘Oh!  I see,’ she said, ’that woman in the grass, eh?  Do you think I could be of any use to you?’

Jory flared up in a moment, warmly approving the idea, but Claude with the greatest energy replied, ’No, no madame wouldn’t suit.  She is not at all what I want for this picture; not at all.’

Then he went on stammering excuses.  He would be only too pleased later on, but just now he was afraid that another model would quite complete his confusion over that picture; and Irma responded by shrugging her shoulders, and looking at him with an air of smiling contempt.

Jory, however, now began to chat about their friends.  Why had not Claude come to Sandoz’s on the previous Thursday?  One never saw him now.  Dubuche asserted all sorts of things about him.  There had been a row between Fagerolles and Mahoudeau on the subject whether evening dress was a thing to be reproduced in sculpture.  Then on the previous Sunday Gagniere had returned home from a Wagner concert with a black eye.  He, Jory, had nearly had a duel at the Cafe Baudequin on account of one of his last articles in ‘The Drummer.’  The fact was he was giving it hot to the twopenny-halfpenny painters, the men with the usurped reputations!  The campaign against the hanging committee of the Salon was making a deuce of a row; not a shred would be left of those guardians of the ideal, who wanted to prevent nature from entering their show.

Claude listened to him with impatient irritation.  He had taken up his palette and was shuffling about in front of his picture.  The other one understood at last.

‘You want to work, I see; all right, we’ll leave you.’

Irma, however, still stared at the painter, with her vague smile, astonished at the stupidity of this simpleton, who did not seem to appreciate her, and seized despite herself with a whim to please him.  His studio was ugly, and he himself wasn’t handsome; but why should he put on such bugbear airs?  She chaffed him for a moment, and on going off again offered to sit for him, emphasising her offer by warmly pressing his hand.

‘Whenever you like,’ were her parting words.

They had gone at last, and Claude was obliged to pull the screen aside, for Christine, looking very white, remained seated behind it, as if she lacked the strength to rise.  She did not say a word about the girl, but simply declared that she had felt very frightened; and —­trembling lest there should come another knock—­she wanted to go at once, carrying away with her, as her startled looks testified, the disturbing thought of many things which she did not mention.