“It’s not time,” said Gethryn, “you have five minutes yet.” “Go on, all the same.” And soon the rattle of the brushes alone broke the silence. At last Gethryn rose and backed off with a sigh. “How’s that, Elise?” he called. She sprang down and stood looking over his shoulder. “Now I’m like myself!” she cried, frankly; “it’s delicious! But hurry and block in the legs, why don’t you?” “Next pose,” said the young man, squeezing out more color. And so the afternoon wore away, and at six o’clock Gethryn threw down his brushes with a long-drawn breath. “That’s all for today. Now, Elise, when can you give me the next pose? I don’t want a week at a time on this; I only want a day now and then.” The model went over to her dress and rummaged about in the pockets. “Here,” she said, handing him a notebook and diary. He selected a date, and wrote his name and the hour. “Good,” said the girl, reading it; and replacing the book, picked up her stockings and slowly began to dress. Gethryn lay back on the lounge, thoroughly tired out. Elise was humming a Normandy fishing song. When, at last, she stood up and drew on her gloves, he had fallen into a light sleep. She stepped softly over to the lounge and listened to the quiet breathing of the young man. “How handsome—and how good he is!” she murmured, wistfully. She opened the door very gently. “So different, so different from the rest!” she sighed, and noiselessly went her way. CHAPTER VIII. Although the sound of the closing door was hardly perceptible, it was enough to wake Gethryn. “Elise!” he called, starting up, “Elise!” But the girl was beyond earshot. “And she went away without her money, too; I’ll drop around tomorrow and leave it; she may need it,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes and staring at the door. It was dinner time, and past, but he had little appetite. “I’ll just have something here,” he said to himself, and catching up his hat ran down stairs. In twenty minutes he was back with eggs, butter, bread, a paté, a bottle of wine and a can of sardines. The spirit lamp was lighted and the table deftly spread. “I’ll have a cup of tea, too,” he thought, shaking the blue tea canister, and then, touching a match to the well-filled grate, soon had the kettle fizzling and spluttering merrily. The wind had blown up cold from the east and the young man shivered as he closed and fastened the windows. Then he sat down, his chin on his hands, and gazed into the glowing grate. Mrs Gummidge, who had smelled the sardines, came rubbing up against his legs, uttering a soft mew from sheer force of habit. She was not hungry—in fact, Gethryn knew that the concierge, whose duty it was to feed all the creatures, overdid it from pure kindness of heart—at Gethryn’s expense. “Gummidge, you’re stuffed up to your eyes, aren’t you?” he said.