I found myself in a high-ceiled room, at one end of which was suspended a row of perhaps a dozen lamps.  Here, at least, there was-no lack of light:  it required some moments to accustom our eyes to the sudden contrast.  The yellow blaze was directed by reflectors into the space immediately beneath the lamps, which left the rest of the room pleasantly tempered.  Some easels, a few chairs and screens, plaster casts on shelves, sketches in all stages of progress on the wall, a tea-kettle singing over a bright fire in a stove, and a curtain enclosing a corner used as a bedroom, completed the list of furniture.  It was a night-school for lady artists.  The class had finished for the evening, and a number of the students were moving about or seated near the fire, talking in an unlimited number of languages.

I was given several random introductions, and did my best to follow Afra’s directions; but there was an indescribable quaintness about the appearance and manners of my new acquaintance that made it difficult not to stare.  I found, however, that little notice was taken of me, as a lively discussion was being carried on over a study of an arm and hand which one of them was holding up for inspection.

“It is a style I should call the lantern,” said she.  “The redness of the flesh can only be accounted for on the supposition that a light is shining through it.”

“I should call it raw beef,” remarked another.

“It is a shame, mademoiselle!” began the model in an injured tone.  She had been tying on her bonnet before a bit of looking-glass she had taken from her pocket.  “Does my arm look like that?” Here she indignantly drew up her sleeve and held out that dimpled member, meanwhile gazing wrathfully at the sketch.  “It ought not to be allowed.  The silver tones of my flesh are entirely lost; and see how you have caricatured the elegance of my beautiful hand.  Will not some one help mademoiselle to put it right before my reputation is ruined?”

“Jeanne, a model is not a critic,” said the author of the drawing, coming forward and grasping the canvas with no gentle hand.—­“Ladies, if you wish to find fault, turn to your own studies.  That proportion is frightful”—­she pointed to different sketches as she spoke—­“that ear is too large; and, madame, if you take a crust of paint like yours for freedom of touch, I pity you.”

This dispute was by no means the last during the evening.  Opinions seemed to be plentiful in Bohemia, each individual being furnished with a set of her own on every subject broached; and as no diffidence was shown in putting them forth, the company quarreled with great good-nature and evident enjoyment.  A pot of tea was then brewed by the owner of the studio, who had been English before she became Bohemian, and the beverage was handed round in tea-cups which, like the opinions of the guests, differed widely from each other.  In the silence that attended this diversion Afra took the floor and said, “How about the garden-party to the country?  Who is going?”