says a
friendly voice.

She starts, sits up. Mollified and almost smiling at this unexpected
visitor, she says:

"What--you, young Minerva! How did you get in?"

"Very easily. All the doors are open."

"I am not surprised. Constance is crazy, since this morning, over her
dinner."

"Yes, I saw. The anteroom is full of flowers. Who is coming?"

"Oh! a stupid dinner--an official dinner. I don't know how I could--Sit
down here, near me. I am so glad to see you."

Paul sat down, a little disturbed. She had never seemed to him so
beautiful. In the dusk of the studio, amid the shadowy brilliance of the
works of art, bronzes, and tapestries, her pallor was like a soft light,
her eyes shone like precious stones, and her long, close-fitting gown
revealed the unrestraint of her goddess-like body. Then, she spoke so
affectionately, she seemed so happy because he had come. Why had he
stayed away so long? It was almost a month since they had seen him. Were
they no longer friends? He excused himself as best he could--business,
a journey. Besides, if he hadn't been there, he had often spoken of
her--oh, very often, almost every day.

"Really? And with whom?"

"With----"

He was going to say "With Aline Joyeuse," but a feeling of restraint
stopped him, an undefinable sentiment, a sense of shame at pronouncing
her name in the studio which had heard so many others. There are things
that do not go together, one scarcely knows why. Paul preferred to reply
with a falsehood, which brought him at once to the object of his visit.

"With an excellent fellow to whom you have given very unnecessary pain.
Come, why have you not finished the poor Nabob's bust? It was a great
joy to him, such a very proud thing for him, to have that bust in the
exhibition. He counted upon it."

At the Nabob's name she was slightly troubled.

"It is true," she said, "I broke my word. But what do you expect? I am
made of caprice. See, the cover is over it; all wet, so that the clay
does not harden."

"And the accident? You know, we didn't believe in it."

"Then you were wrong. I never lie. It had a fall, a most awful upset;
only the clay was fresh, and I easily repaired it. Look!"

With a sweeping gesture she lifted the cover. The Nabob suddenly
appeared before them, his jolly face beaming with the pleasure of being
portrayed; so like, so tremendously himself, that Paul gave a cry of
admiration.

"Isn't it good?" she said artlessly. "Still a few