to the right, and walking a few steps came to a
door opening on a stairway, which we mounted. I can think of nothing
black enough for comparison with the darkness surrounding us. At last
a faint glimmer showed an old lamp standing in a corner of a hall bare
and carpetless. A series of doors flanked the place, looking to my
unaccustomed eyes all alike, but Afra without a moment's hesitation
went to one of them and knocked. It was opened by a lady, who smiled
and said, "Enter. You are just in time: school is over and the model
about going."

I found myself in a high-ceiled room, at one end of which was
suspended a row of perhaps a dozen lamps. Here, at least, there was-no
lack of light: it required some moments to accustom our eyes to the
sudden contrast. The yellow blaze was directed by reflectors into the
space immediately beneath the lamps, which left the rest of the room
pleasantly tempered. Some easels, a few chairs and screens, plaster
casts on shelves, sketches in all stages of progress on the wall,
a tea-kettle singing over a bright fire in a stove, and a curtain
enclosing a corner used as a bedroom, completed the list of furniture.
It was a night-school for lady artists. The class had finished for the
evening, and a number of the students were moving about or seated near
the fire, talking in an unlimited number of languages.

I was given several random introductions, and did my best to follow
Afra's directions; but there was an indescribable quaintness about the
appearance and manners of my new acquaintance that made it difficult
not to stare. I found, however, that little notice was taken of me,
as a lively discussion was being carried on over a study of an arm and
hand which one of them was holding up for inspection.

"It is a style I should call the lantern," said she. "The redness of
the flesh can only be accounted for on the supposition that a light is
shining through it."

"I should call it raw beef," remarked another.

"It is a shame, mademoiselle!" began the model in an injured tone.
She had been tying on her bonnet before a bit of looking-glass she
had taken from her pocket. "Does my arm look like that?" Here she
indignantly drew up her sleeve and held out that dimpled member,
meanwhile gazing wrathfully at the sketch. "It ought not to be
allowed. The silver tones of my flesh are entirely lost; and see how
you have caricatured the elegance of my beautiful hand. Will not some
one help mademoiselle