The rain falls, the mud deepens; the beautiful sphinx lies still, her eyes lost in the dull horizon. What is she thinking of? What does she see coming there, over those filthy roads, in the falling night, that her lip should take that curve of disgust and her brow that frown? Is she waiting for her fate? A sad fate, that sets forth in such weather, fearless of the darkness and the dirt. Some one comes into the studio with a heavier tread than the mouse-like step of Constance--the little servant, doubtless; and, without looking round, Felicia says roughly, “Go away! I don’t want any one in.” “I should have liked to speak to you very much, all the same,” says a friendly voice. She starts, sits up. Mollified and almost smiling at this unexpected visitor, she says: “What--you, young Minerva! How did you get in?” “Very easily. All the doors are open.” “I am not surprised. Constance is crazy, since this morning, over her dinner.” “Yes, I saw. The anteroom is full of flowers. Who is coming?” “Oh! a stupid dinner--an official dinner. I don’t know how I could--Sit down here, near me. I am so glad to see you.” Paul sat down, a little disturbed. She had never seemed to him so beautiful. In the dusk of the studio, amid the shadowy brilliance of the works of art, bronzes, and tapestries, her pallor was like a soft light, her eyes shone like precious stones, and her long, close-fitting gown revealed the unrestraint of her goddess-like body. Then, she spoke so affectionately, she seemed so happy because he had come. Why had he stayed away so long? It was almost a month since they had seen him. Were they no longer friends? He excused himself as best he could--business, a journey. Besides, if he hadn’t been there, he had often spoken of her--oh, very often, almost every day. “Really? And with whom?” “With----” He was going to say “With Aline Joyeuse,” but a feeling of restraint stopped him, an undefinable sentiment, a sense of shame at pronouncing her name in the studio which had heard so many others. There are things that do not go together, one scarcely knows why. Paul preferred to reply with a falsehood, which brought him at once to the object of his visit. “With an excellent fellow to whom you have given very unnecessary pain. Come, why have you not finished the poor Nabob’s bust? It was a great joy to him, such a very proud thing for him, to have that bust in the exhibition. He counted upon it.” At the Nabob’s name she was slightly troubled. “It is true,” she said, “I broke my word. But what do you expect? I am made of caprice. See, the cover is over it; all wet, so that the clay does not harden.” “And the accident? You know, we didn’t believe in it.” “Then you were wrong. I never lie. It had a fall, a most awful upset; only the clay was fresh, and I easily repaired it. Look!”