She made him feel at home at once by treating him like an old chum, and, in fact, he saw well enough that she did not even notice his old clothes. He himself was astonished, for he barely recognised her. In the course of four years she had become a different being; her head was ‘made up’ with all an actress’s skill, her brow hidden beneath a mass of curly hair, and her face elongated, by a sheer effort of will, no doubt. And from a pale blonde she had become flaringly carrotty; so that a Titianesque creature seemed to have sprung from the little urchin-like girl of former days. Her house, with all its show of luxury, still had its bald spots. What struck the painter were some good pictures on the walls, a Courbet, and, above all, an unfinished study by Delacroix. So this wild, wilful creature was not altogether a fool, although there was a frightful cat in coloured _biscuit_ standing on a console in the drawing-room. When Jory spoke of sending the valet to his friend’s place, she exclaimed in great surprise: ‘What! you are married?’ ‘Why, yes,’ said Claude, simply. She glanced at Jory, who smiled; then she understood, and added: ‘Ah! But why did people tell me that you were a woman-hater? I’m awfully vexed, you know. I frightened you, don’t you remember, eh? You still think me very ugly, don’t you? Well, well, we’ll talk about it all some other day.’ It was the coachman who went to the Rue de Douai with a note from Claude, for the valet had opened the door of the dining-room, to announce that lunch was served. The repast, a very delicate one, was partaken of in all propriety, under the icy stare of the servant. They talked about the great building works that were revolutionising Paris; and then discussed the price of land, like middle-class people with money to invest. But at dessert, when they were all three alone with the coffee and liqueurs, which they had decided upon taking there, without leaving the table, they gradually became animated, and dropped into their old familiar ways, as if they had met each other at the Café Baudequin. ‘Ah, my lads,’ said Irma, ‘this is the only real enjoyment, to be jolly together and to snap one’s fingers at other people.’ She was twisting cigarettes; she had just placed the bottle of chartreuse near her, and had begun to empty it, looking the while very flushed, and lapsing once more to her low street drollery. ‘So,’ continued Jory, who was apologising for not having sent her that morning a book she wanted, ‘I was going to buy it last night at about ten o’clock, when I met Fagerolles--’ ‘You are telling a lie,’ said she, interrupting him in a clear voice. And to cut short his protestations--‘Fagerolles was here,’ she added, ‘so you see that you are telling a lie.’