whiff of warm air that entered. Then he took up his
sketch of Christine's head and for a long while he lingered looking at
it.

II

IT had struck twelve, and Claude was working at his picture when
there was a loud, familiar knock at the door. With an instinctive yet
involuntary impulse, the artist slipped the sketch of Christine's head,
by the aid of which he was remodelling the principal figure of his
picture, into a portfolio. After which he decided to open the door.

'You, Pierre!' he exclaimed, 'already!'

Pierre Sandoz, a friend of his boyhood, was about twenty-two, very dark,
with a round and determined head, a square nose, and gentle eyes, set in
energetic features, girt round with a sprouting beard.

'I breakfasted earlier than usual,' he answered, 'in order to give you a
long sitting. The devil! you are getting on with it.'

He had stationed himself in front of the picture, and he added almost
immediately: 'Hallo! you have altered the character of your woman's
features!'

Then came a long pause; they both kept staring at the canvas. It
measured about sixteen feet by ten, and was entirely painted over,
though little of the work had gone beyond the roughing-out. This
roughing-out, hastily dashed off, was superb in its violence and ardent
vitality of colour. A flood of sunlight streamed into a forest clearing,
with thick walls of verdure; to the left, stretched a dark glade with a
small luminous speck in the far distance. On the grass, amidst all the
summer vegetation, lay a nude woman with one arm supporting her head,
and though her eyes were closed she smiled amidst the golden shower that
fell around her. In the background, two other women, one fair, and the
other dark, wrestled playfully, setting light flesh tints amidst all the
green leaves. And, as the painter had wanted something dark by way of
contrast in the foreground, he had contented himself with seating there
a gentleman, dressed in a black velveteen jacket. This gentleman had
his back turned and the only part of his flesh that one saw was his left
hand, with which he was supporting himself on the grass.

'The woman promises well,' said Sandoz, at last; 'but, dash it, there
will be a lot of work in all this.'

Claude, with his eyes blazing in front of his picture, made a gesture
of confidence. 'I've lots of time from now till the Salon. One can get
through a deal of work in six months. And perhaps this time I'll be able
to prove that I