Claude, no doubt, became aware of her discomfort.  A sudden feeling of shame brought with it one of compunction.

He put his unfinished sketch aside, and hastily exclaimed:  ’Much obliged for your kindness, mademoiselle.  Forgive me, I have really abused it.  Yes, indeed, pray get up; it’s time for you to look for your friends.’

And without appearing to understand why she did not follow his advice, but hid more and more of her bare arm in proportion as he drew nearer, he still insisted upon advising her to rise.  All at once, as the real state of things struck him, he swung his arms about like a madman, set the screen in position, and went to the far end of the studio, where he began noisily setting his crockery in order, so that she might jump out and dress herself, without fear of being overheard.

Amidst the din he had thus raised, he failed to hear her hesitating voice, ‘Monsieur, monsieur—­’

At last he caught her words.

‘Monsieur, would you be so kind—­I can’t find my stockings.’

Claude hurried forward.  What had he been thinking of?  What was she to do behind that screen, without her stockings and petticoats, which he had spread out in the sunlight?  The stockings were dry, he assured himself of that by gently rubbing them together, and he handed them to her over the partition; again noticing her arm, bare, plump and rosy like that of a child.  Then he tossed the skirts on to the foot of the bed and pushed her boots forward, leaving nothing but her bonnet suspended from the easel.  She had thanked him and that was all; he scarcely distinguished the rustling of her clothes and the discreet splashing of water.  Still he continued to concern himself about her.

’You will find the soap in a saucer on the table.  Open the drawer and take a clean towel.  Do you want more water?  I’ll give you the pitcher.’

Suddenly the idea that he was blundering again exasperated him.

’There, there, I am only worrying you.  I will leave you to your own devices.  Do as if you were at home.’

And he continued to potter about among the crockery.  He was debating with himself whether he should ask her to stay to breakfast.  He ought not to let her go like that.  On the other hand, if she did stay, he would never get done; it would mean a loss of his whole morning.  Without deciding anything, as soon as he had lighted his spirit lamp, he washed his saucepan and began to make some chocolate.  He thought it more distingue, feeling rather ashamed of his vermicelli, which he mixed with bread and soused with oil as people do in the South of France.  However, he was still breaking the chocolate into bits, when he uttered a cry of surprise, ‘What, already?’

It was Christine, who had pushed back the screen, and who appeared looking neat and correct in her black dress, duly laced and buttoned up, equipped, as it were, in a twinkle.  Her rosy face did not even show traces of the water, her thick hair was twisted in a knot at the back of her head, not a single lock out of place.  And Claude remained open-mouthed before that miracle of quickness, that proof of feminine skill in dressing well and promptly.