Nevertheless, the studio continued to frighten her a little.  She cast sidelong glances around it, astonished at so much disorder and carelessness.  Before the stove the cinders of the previous winter still lay in a heap.  Besides the bed, the small washstand, and the couch, there was no other furniture than an old dilapidated oaken wardrobe and a large deal table, littered with brushes, colours, dirty plates, and a spirit lamp, atop of which was a saucepan, with shreds of vermicelli sticking to its sides.  Some rush-bottomed chairs, their seats the worse for wear, were scattered about beside spavined easels.  Near the couch the candlestick used on the previous night stood on the floor, which looked as if it had not been swept for fully a month.  There was only the cuckoo clock, a huge one, with a dial illuminated with crimson flowers, that looked clean and bright, ticking sonorously all the while.  But what especially frightened her were some sketches in oils that hung frameless from the walls, a serried array of sketches reaching to the floor, where they mingled with heaps of canvases thrown about anyhow.  She had never seen such terrible painting, so coarse, so glaring, showing a violence of colour, that jarred upon her nerves like a carter’s oath heard on the doorstep of an inn.  She cast her eyes down for a moment, and then became attracted by a picture, the back of which was turned to her.  It was the large canvas at which the painter was working, and which he pushed against the wall every night, the better to judge it on the morrow in the surprise of the first glance.  What could it be, that one, she wondered, since he dared not even show it?  And, meantime, through the vast room, a sheet of burning sunlight, falling straight from the window panes, unchecked by any blind, spread with the flow of molten gold over all the broken-down furniture, whose devil-may-care shabbiness it threw into bold relief.

Claude began to feel the silence oppressive; he wanted to say something, no matter what, first, in order to be polite, and more especially to divert her attention from her pose.  But cudgel his brain as he would, he could only think of asking:  ‘Pray, what is your name?’

She opened her eyes, which she had closed, as if she were feeling sleepy.

‘Christine,’ she said.

At which he seemed surprised.  Neither had he told her his name.  Since the night before they had been together, side by side, without knowing one another.

‘My name is Claude.’

And, having looked at her just at that moment, he saw her burst into a pretty laugh.  It was the sudden, merry peal of a big girl, still scarcely more than a hoyden.  She considered this tardy exchange of names rather droll.  Then something else amused her.

‘How funny—­Claude, Christine—­they begin with the same letter.’

They both became silent once more.  He was blinking at his work, growing absorbed in it, and at a loss how to continue the conversation.  He fancied that she was beginning to feel tired and uncomfortable, and in his fear lest she should stir, he remarked at random, merely to occupy her thoughts, ‘It feels rather warm.’