“I want you to go and talk to Matignon, dear,” he said in a low voice. “He’s always bad tempered if you don’t pay him enough attention. Go and make love to the old boy.” A vague uneasiness passed from François’s mind at the sound of his friend’s voice, always gentle when he spoke to Anne. It was even gentler than usual now, and he did not fail to notice the caress of his hand on her sleeve, nor the look of happy understanding between them, as she moved away, smiling, to obey him. “I’m arranging for her to come and pose. I’m going to begin the picture at once,” he said. “_Bon!_” returned René, his face lighting up. “You’ve taken your time about it.” “One hesitates to begin one’s masterpiece,” François retorted. “You who do nothing else, except finish them, ought to have compassion on the weaker brethren.” René made a laughing gesture of menace. “_Allons, mes amis ... mais calmez-vous donc!_” exclaimed Blanche Aubriot at his elbow. François looked down at her white shoulders, and experienced a momentary feeling of repugnance which passed into self-ridicule, for glancing at her indolent brown eyes soft as velvet, at her full red lips, at her glossy hair, he acknowledged her beauty. “Come and talk to me, Monsieur René,” she urged with the insistence of a spoilt child. “You’re a great man, I know, but the lion condescends to the mouse sometimes, doesn’t he?” François followed them with his eyes as they moved away together. “If she had said _cat_, I should have found no difficulty in reversing the parts,” was his inward reflection. * * * * * The fire had died down, but as he sat before the smouldering ashes, François was very far in space and time from the club bedroom in which he was dreaming. He was passing through successive stages of satisfaction and despair, hope and baffling discouragement, while he painted Anne’s portrait. After the first fortnight, she came every day, and every day she was more silent. He remembered this afterwards. At the time, engrossed heart and soul in his picture, he did not notice her quietude. He was only half consciously perplexed by a subtle difference in her expression which he found hard to reconcile with his previous impression of her--a difference which was at once his inspiration, and his despair. “If only I can get that, I shall paint a great picture!” he exclaimed one day involuntarily, breaking a long silence. “What?” asked Anne. He started, forgetting that he had spoken aloud. “I don’t know.” She smiled a little. “Then I’m afraid you won’t get it.” “But I _have_!” He almost shouted the words, one afternoon a week afterwards, when she had stood patiently almost as long as the daylight lasted. She looked at him with inquiring eyes, as he threw down his brush. “I won’t touch it again! It’s there! It’s all right. _Mon Dieu!_ Anne, do you hear me? I’ve painted a great picture.” He came towards the stand, both hands outstretched, and helped her down.