"How does that happen?" "Why, Felicia's at work. She doesn't want to be disturbed and the servants are so stupid. I am carrying out her orders myself." Then, as she saw the Irishman walk toward the studio, she added: "No, no, don't go there. She gave me strict orders not to let any one go in." "Very good, but I--" "I beg you not--you will get me a scolding." Jenkins was about to withdraw, when a peal of laughter from Felicia reached their ears through the portiere and made him raise his head. "So she isn't alone?" "No. The Nabob is with her. They are having a sitting--for the bust." "But why this mystery? It's very strange." He strode back and forth, raging inwardly, but holding himself back. At last he broke out. It was improper beyond expression to allow a girl to be closeted in that way with a man. He was astonished that so serious-minded, so devout a person as Constance--What did it look like? The old lady gazed at him in stupefaction. As if Felicia were like other girls! And then, what danger could there be with the Nabob, such a serious man and so ugly? Moreover, Jenkins ought to know well enough that Felicia never consulted anybody, that she did only what she chose. "No, no, it's impossible; I cannot allow this," exclaimed the Irishman. And, paying no further heed to the dancer, who threw up her arms to call heaven to witness what was taking place, he walked toward the studio; but, instead of entering at once, he opened the door gently and raised a corner of the hanging, so that a part of the room, just that part where the Nabob was posing, was visible to him, although at a considerable distance. Jansoulet was seated, without a cravat, with his waistcoat thrown open, talking excitedly, in an undertone. Felicia answered in laughing whispers. The sitting was very animated. Then there was a pause, a rustling of skirts, and the artist, going up to her model, turned his linen collar back all the way around, with a familiar gesture, letting her hand run lightly over the tanned skin. That Ethiopian face, in which the muscles quivered with the intoxication of supreme content, with its great eyelids lowered like those of a sleeping beast being tickled with a straw, the bold outline of the girl as she leaned over that outlandish face to verify its proportions, and then a violent, irresistible gesture, seizing the slender hand as it passed and pressing it to two thick, trembling lips,--Jenkins saw all this in a red glare. The noise that he made in entering caused the two to resume their respective positions, and in the bright light which dazzled his prying, catlike eyes, he saw the girl standing before him, indignant, dumfounded: "What is this? Who has dared?" and the Nabob on his platform, with his collar turned back, petrified, monumental.