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