of a dream.

Claude, no doubt, became aware of her discomfort. A sudden feeling of
shame brought with it one of compunction.

He put his unfinished sketch aside, and hastily exclaimed: 'Much obliged
for your kindness, mademoiselle. Forgive me, I have really abused it.
Yes, indeed, pray get up; it's time for you to look for your friends.'

And without appearing to understand why she did not follow his advice,
but hid more and more of her bare arm in proportion as he drew nearer,
he still insisted upon advising her to rise. All at once, as the real
state of things struck him, he swung his arms about like a madman, set
the screen in position, and went to the far end of the studio, where he
began noisily setting his crockery in order, so that she might jump out
and dress herself, without fear of being overheard.

Amidst the din he had thus raised, he failed to hear her hesitating
voice, 'Monsieur, monsieur--'

At last he caught her words.

'Monsieur, would you be so kind--I can't find my stockings.'

Claude hurried forward. What had he been thinking of? What was she to do
behind that screen, without her stockings and petticoats, which he had
spread out in the sunlight? The stockings were dry, he assured himself
of that by gently rubbing them together, and he handed them to her over
the partition; again noticing her arm, bare, plump and rosy like that of
a child. Then he tossed the skirts on to the foot of the bed and pushed
her boots forward, leaving nothing but her bonnet suspended from the
easel. She had thanked him and that was all; he scarcely distinguished
the rustling of her clothes and the discreet splashing of water. Still
he continued to concern himself about her.

'You will find the soap in a saucer on the table. Open the drawer and
take a clean towel. Do you want more water? I'll give you the pitcher.'

Suddenly the idea that he was blundering again exasperated him.

'There, there, I am only worrying you. I will leave you to your own
devices. Do as if you were at home.'

And he continued to potter about among the crockery. He was debating
with himself whether he should ask her to stay to breakfast. He ought
not to let her go like that. On the other hand, if she did stay, he
would never get done; it would mean a loss of his whole morning. Without
deciding anything, as soon as he had lighted his spirit lamp, he washed
his saucepan and began to make some chocolate. He thought it more
_distingue_, feeling