e wonderful
figures that Jean made, that were not clay at all, but that breathed
and lived, and to whom she could talk about Jean, and about his great
triumph, and tell them all that was in her heart, and they would listen
to her and understand as no one else could, and never tell any one that
she had been there. And she would not be afraid of them at all any
more, not even at first, as she had been last night because they looked
so ghostlike in the white cloths that were wrapped around them.

She looked hurriedly about her, then opened the door, stepped inside,
and crossed noiselessly into the salon. She could not quite still the
pounding of her heart, because it was night, and because it was dark,
and because she was doing something that no one must know; but she was
not at all afraid now. Since last night she had been so sure that
there was nothing to fear. Hector and Madame Mi-mi had thought it the
most natural thing to find her working there that morning when they had
got up. Was it not for that she had been given the key? And to-morrow
morning again when daylight came it would be the same; and now--she was
hurrying through the salon to the _atelier_--and now she was to see
that splendid, glorious figure, the "_Fille du Regiment_," again, and
see the face that perhaps, oh, perhaps to-night, after Jean's work of
the day upon it, would be finished, and that she would recognise.

She slipped between the portieres into the moonlit room, and--she could
not wait even to take off her cloak and turban--tiptoed eagerly,
excitedly across the _atelier_, mounted upon the modelling platform,
and threw back the white damp cloth, revealing the figure's head. And
then, for a moment, she could only gaze at it, puzzled and bewildered;
and then, very slowly and regretfully, she sat down upon the platform.
The face had not been touched. It--it was exactly as it had been last
night. Somehow, Jean had not done any work that day--or else, perhaps,
he had worked on some of the other figures.

She sat staring at the face of the clay figure in a disappointment that
was almost dismay--and then suddenly she smiled. After all, it was she
herself who was the cause of her disappointment; she had wanted to see
that face with its finished touch so much that, in her eagerness, she
had quite made herself believe that she would find it so--whereas it
might be days and days yet before Jean would have completed it. And
instead of being dis