The background--the dark glade pierced by a flood of sunlight--was still only broadly brushed in. But the two little wrestlers--the fair one and the dark--almost finished by now, showed clearly in the light. In the foreground, the gentleman in the velveteen jacket, three times begun afresh, had now been left in distress. The painter was more particularly working at the principal figure, the woman lying on the grass. He had not touched the head again. He was battling with the body, changing his model every week, so despondent at being unable to satisfy himself that for a couple of days he had been trying to improve the figure from imagination, without recourse to nature, although he boasted that he never invented. Christine at once recognised herself. Yes, that nude girl sprawling on the grass, one arm behind her head, smiling with lowered eyelids, was herself, for she had her features. The idea absolutely revolted her, and she was wounded too by the wildness of the painting, so brutal indeed that she considered herself abominably insulted. She did not understand that kind of art; she thought it execrable, and felt a hatred against it, the instinctive hatred of an enemy. She rose at last, and curtly repeated, ‘I must be going.’ Claude watched her attentively, both grieved and surprised by her sudden change of manner. ‘Going already?’ ‘Yes, they are waiting for me. Good-bye.’ And she had already reached the door before he could take her hand, and venture to ask her: ‘When shall I see you again?’ She allowed her hand to remain in his. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. ‘I don’t know. I am so busy.’ Then she withdrew her hand and went off, hastily, saying: ‘One of these days, when I can. Good-bye.’ Claude remained stock-still on the threshold. He wondered what had come over her again to cause her sudden coolness, her covert irritation. He closed the door, and walked about, with dangling arms, and without understanding, seeking vainly for the phrase, the gesture that could have offended her. And he in his turn became angry, and launched an oath into space, with a terrific shrug of the shoulders, as if to rid himself of this silly worry. Did a man ever understand women? However, the sight of the roses, overlapping the water-jug, pacified him; they smelt so sweet. Their scent pervaded the whole studio, and silently he resumed his work amidst the perfume.