Paul sat down, a little perturbed in mind. She had never seemed so lovely to him. In the half-light of the studio, amid the confusion of objects of art, bronzes, tapestries, her pallor cast a soft light, her eyes shone like jewels, and her long, close-fitting riding habit outlined the negligent attitude of her goddess-like figure. Then her tone was so affectionate, she seemed so pleased at his call. Why had he stayed away so long? It was almost a month since she had seen him. Had they ceased to be friends, pray? He excused himself as best he could. Business, a journey. Moreover, although he had not been there, he had often talked about her, oh! very often, almost every day. "Really? With whom?" "With--" He was on the point of saying: "With Aline Joyeuse," but something checked him, an indefinable sentiment, a sort of shame at uttering that name in the studio which had heard so many other names. There are some things which do not go together, although one cannot tell why. Paul preferred to answer with a falsehood which led him straight to the object of his call. "With an excellent man upon whom you have unnecessarily inflicted great pain. Tell me, why haven't you finished the poor Nabob's bust? It was a source of great joy and great pride to him, the thought of that bust at the Salon. He relied upon it." At the name of the Nabob she was slightly embarrassed. "It is true," she said, "I broke my word. What do you expect? I am the slave of my whims. But it is my purpose to take it up again one of these days. See, the cloth thrown over it is all damp, so that the clay won't dry." "And the accident? Ah! do you know, we hardly believed in that?" "You were wrong. I never lie. A fall, a terrible crash. But the clay was fresh, I easily repaired it. Look!" She removed the cloth with a movement of her arm; the Nabob stood forth, with his honest face beaming with joy at being reproduced, and so true, so natural, that Paul uttered a cry of admiration. "Isn't it good?" she asked ingenuously. "A few touches there and there--" She had taken the tool and the little sponge and pushed the stand into what little light there was. "It would be a matter of a few hours; but it couldn't go to the Exhibition. This is the 22d; everything had to be sent in long ago." "Pshaw! With influence--" She frowned, and the wicked, drooping expression played about her mouth. "True. The Duc de Mora's _protegee_. Oh! you need not excuse yourself. I know what people say of him, and I care as little for it as that!" She threw a pellet of clay which flattened out against the wall. "Perhaps, indeed, by dint of imagining what is not--But let us drop those vile things," she said, with a toss of her little aristocratic head. "I am anxious to give you pleasure, Minerva. Your friend shall go to the Salon this year."