'Oh, no; I know nothing, nothing at all. Mamma, who was very talented,
made me do a little water-colour, and I sometimes helped her with the
backgrounds of her fans. She painted some lovely ones.'

In spite of herself, she then glanced at the startling sketches with
which the walls seemed ablaze, and her limpid eyes assumed an uneasy
expression at the sight of that rough, brutal style of painting. From
where she lay she obtained a topsy-turvy view of the study of herself
which the painter had begun, and her consternation at the violent
tones she noticed, the rough crayon strokes, with which the shadows
were dashed off, prevented her from asking to look at it more closely.
Besides, she was growing very uncomfortable in that bed, where she lay
broiling; she fidgetted with the idea of going off and putting an end
to all these things which, ever since the night before, had seemed to
her so much 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