Soon after this a shade of change in my reception at the cabman’s eating-house marked the beginning of a new phase in my distress.  The first day, I told myself it was but fancy; the next, I made quite sure it was a fact; the third, in mere panic I stayed away, and went for forty-eight hours fasting.  This was an act of great unreason; for the debtor who stays away is but the more remarked, and the boarder who misses a meal is sure to be accused of infidelity.  On the fourth day, therefore, I returned, inwardly quaking.  The proprietor looked askance upon my entrance; the waitresses (who were his daughters) neglected my wants and sniffed at the affected joviality of my salutations; last and most plain, when I called for a suisse (such as was being served to all the other diners) I was bluntly told there were no more.  It was obvious I was near the end of my tether; one plank divided me from want, and now I felt it tremble.  I passed a sleepless night, and the first thing in the morning took my way to Myner’s studio.  It was a step I had long meditated and long refrained from; for I was scarce intimate with the Englishman; and though I knew him to possess plenty of money, neither his manner nor his reputation were the least encouraging to beggars.

I found him at work on a picture, which I was able conscientiously to praise, dressed in his usual tweeds, plain, but pretty fresh, and standing out in disagreeable contrast to my own withered and degraded outfit.  As we talked, he continued to shift his eyes watchfully between his handiwork and the fat model, who sat at the far end of the studio in a state of nature, with one arm gallantly arched above her head.  My errand would have been difficult enough under the best of circumstances:  placed between Myner, immersed in his art, and the white, fat, naked female in a ridiculous attitude, I found it quite impossible.  Again and again I attempted to approach the point, again and again fell back on commendations of the picture; and it was not until the model had enjoyed an interval of repose, during which she took the conversation in her own hands and regaled us (in a soft, weak voice) with details as to her husband’s prosperity, her sister’s lamented decline from the paths of virtue, and the consequent wrath of her father, a peasant of stern principles, in the vicinity of Chalons on the Marne;—­it was not, I say, until after this was over, and I had once more cleared my throat for the attack, and once more dropped aside into some commonplace about the picture, that Myner himself brought me suddenly and vigorously to the point.

“You didn’t come here to talk this rot,” said he.

“No,” I replied sullenly; “I came to borrow money.”

He painted awhile in silence.

“I don’t think we were ever very intimate?” he asked.

“Thank you,” said I.  “I can take my answer,” and I made as if to go, rage boiling in my heart.

“Of course you can go if you like,” said Myner; “but I advise you to stay and have it out.”