The advocate borrowed a drawing-board, viz. the façade of a new pigeon-house, from Fecht the cobbler. Lenette's shoulder fitted into the oval portal of it as a clasp-knife does into its handle; a sheet of white paper was tacked on to the board--her pretty, soft head was pressed on the stiff paper--he applied, with much care and self restraint, his pencil at the upper part of the brow, difficult as it was to catch the shadow in such immediate proximity to the reality--and went slowly down the beautiful, flowery declivity all roses and lilies. But little or nothing came of it; the _back_ part of the head was pretty good. His eyes would keep turning away from his work to the sitter, so that he drew as vilely as a box-painter. "Wendeline, your head isn't still a moment," he said. And indeed her face, an well as her brain-fibres, shook by reason of the heightened beat of her pulse and the quickening of her breathing; while, on the other hand, his pencil stumbled when it came to the delicate _basso relievo_ of her little nose, fell into the cleft at her lips, and stranded on the shoal of her chin. He kissed those lips which he couldn't draw, and which she always had either too much open or too tightly closed, and brought a shaving-glass and said, "See, haven't you got more faces than Janus, or any Indian god? The Schulrath will think you were making faces, and I copying them. Look, here's where you moved, and I sprung after you like a chamois; the effect of the jump is, that the upper part of the face sticks out before the lower like a half mask. Just think how the Schulrath will stare in the morning." "Try once more, dear; I'll do just as you tell me; I should like it to be very nice," Lenette said, blushing; and stiffened her neck, and steadied her soft cheek against the drawing-board. And as her husband gently glided his drawing ovipositor over her brow like a segment of some white hemisphere--instead of breathing, he found she was _holding_ her breath this time till she shook again, and till the colour came to her face. And here jealousy, like some exploding fire-ship, sent hard fragments of the wreck of his shattered happiness crashing on a sudden against his heart. "Ah!" (he thought) "can it be that she does really love him?" (_i. e._ the Schulrath). His pencil stood still in the obtuse angle between her nose and her chin as if under a spell; he heard her let go her pent-up breath; his pencil made black zigzags at the edge of the paper, and as he stopped at the closed lips, which nothing warmer than his own, and her morning prayers, had ever touched, and thought "Must _this_ come upon me too? must _this_ joy be taken from me like all the rest? And am I drawing up my bill of divorce and Uriah-letter here with my own very hands?" He could do no more at it. He took the drawing-board quickly from her shoulder--fell upon her closed lips--kissed away the pent-up sigh--pressed the life out of his jealousy between his heart and hers, and said--