Peering here and there, considerably chagrined, in the hope of discovering the key, I came, in the alcove, upon the full-sleeved waistcoat in which the artist usually worked, and, diving eagerly into the pockets thereof, found, not the key indeed, but some scraps of paper, much scribbled over, which instantly aroused my curiosity, and, presently, my amusement. “Ho-ho!” thought I, “you are inspired in other than the pictured arts, are you, my gentleman? A poet, and fainting in the perfume of some little naughty Mignonette!” So he had fancy-named the subject of his agonised Muse; and, indeed, why should I prevaricate to myself about the application? I blushed a little, making myself merry over these suffering scrawls and scratches, of which, I was sure, my own poor little person must be the victim. I had a face, it seemed, the calendar of innocence; _une bonne poitrine_; a sweetest little double chin, like a robin’s throat swelled with song. I put my hand to my neck. I could not but admit that the poor man had taken a poetic licence; but, in truth, it was a very example of the licence that was wont to drug his art. The flesh held his fine imagination in thrall, and laboured his first spiritual conceptions into Parisian models. He was divine only in his sketches--impressions. When he wrought to improve upon them, he became transubstantiated. So this was his repentance! He had spent the brief period of it in painting me in verse, since he was debarred my presence in actuality. I smiled, reading-- “Mignonette, Mignonette, Of all flowers the pet.” and “Indeed!” thought I, tossing my head; “but not _yours_ as yet, sir!” While I studied to disentangle the scribble, I heard breathing near me, and started to find Gogo regarding me with a cynical, half-diverted scowl. The creature walked like a cat on carpet. He had no creaking leather to betray him. “So-ho!” growled he; “you can yet blush to be found out by your dog?” I laughed, vexed, and a little embarrassed. “O,” said he, “never mind! I am honoured in even that little rose of shame. You won’t grow it long.” “Gogo,” I said, “how dare you?” “Why,” said he, “as dogs dare, who love without respect, and see no more harm to serve a thief than a prince.” I looked at him a moment, between tears and defiance. “You are very unkind,” I said. “What is the good of my confessing anything to you, if you so distrust me?” “Confessing?” said he, “the good? Why, because I have no legs to run away, and a man’s better judgment is always in his legs. My foolish heart is nearer the ground than most. Tread on it, thou Circe; and prove me less than half Ulysses. Confess to me--confess; and I will stay, and smile--and believe.” “No,” I said, recovering my confidence. “I swear not to, unless you confess first. I asked you the other day how--how you came to lose them; and you put my question by, sir, and were dreadfully rude into the bargain. Very well, I am waiting to have you atone by answering it.”