Thereupon he set up a whistle, inwardly pleased at the sketch he had
made of Christine's head, and buoyed up by one of those flashes of
hope whence he so often dropped into torturing anguish, like an artist
whom passion for nature consumed.

'Come, no more idling,' he shouted. 'As you're here, let us set to.'

Sandoz, out of pure friendship, and to save Claude the cost of a
model, had offered to pose for the gentleman in the foreground. In
four or five Sundays, the only day of the week on which he was free,
the figure would be finished. He was already donning the velveteen
jacket, when a sudden reflection made him stop.

'But, I say, you haven't really lunched, since you were working when I
came in. Just go down and have a cutlet while I wait here.'

The idea of losing time revolted Claude. 'I tell you I have
breakfasted. Look at the saucepan. Besides, you can see there's a
crust of bread left. I'll eat it. Come, to work, to work, lazy-bones.'

And he snatched up his palette and caught his brushes, saying, as he
did so, 'Dubuche is coming to fetch us this evening, isn't he?'

'Yes, about five o'clock.'

'Well, that's all right then. We'll go down to dinner directly he
comes. Are you ready? The hand more to the left, and your head a
little more forward.'