Pure imagination is an expression easily used. But is there not a profound and very sensible point by which this imagination touches our heart, is our heart in fact? When a woman’s grace has wounded this point, we always discover motives why we should not remain faithful to the prudent programme of not seeing her again. The fact was, I began by not having the good night’s sleep I promised myself, and when I awakened from my morning doze I thought of Camille Favier with as much troubled interest as I had done the evening before. I at once found a pretext for breaking my good resolution not to see either her or Molan again. Had I not promised Jacques to inform him as to the success or otherwise of his scheme? All the same, it was not without remorse that about ten o’clock I set out to fulfil my strange mission. I had forgotten the previous evening that I had a model coming at ten. A girl called Malvina came to pose for my never-ending “Psyché pardonnée.” When I sent her away I heard the little inner voice, of which on the previous evening Camille had prettily spoken, whisper: “Coward! Coward!” But even without the little voice, did not the presence of this creature demonstrate to me the absurdity of my incipient sentiment? Malvina had, too, like Camille, the ideal head for the primitive Madonna, and she was pleasure personified. Her mouth, which looked so beautiful in its silent smile, only opened to retail obscenity. What a good plan it is never to believe in the bewitching charm of a face! Fate has warnings like this for us which we disregard with an obscure feeling of the irreparable. After Malvina had gone I looked round my studio, at the unfinished canvas, my colour box, my palette, and I went out pursued by their mute reproach. Why did I not listen!