‘You were saying,’ she resumed, becoming sedate once more, ’that the cabstand is at the end of the bridge on the opposite quay?’

‘Yes; at the spot where there is a clump of trees.’

She had finished tying her bonnet strings, and stood ready gloved, with her hands hanging by her side, and yet she did not go, but stared straight in front of her.  As her eyes met the big canvas turned to the wall she felt a wish to see it, but did not dare to ask.  Nothing detained her; still she seemed to be looking around as if she had forgotten something there, something which she could not name.  At last she stepped towards the door.

Claude was already opening it, and a small loaf placed erect against the post tumbled into the studio.

‘You see,’ he said, ’you ought to have stopped to breakfast with me.  My doorkeeper brings the bread up every morning.’

She again refused with a shake of the head.  When she was on the landing she turned round, and for a moment remained quite still.  Her gay smile had come back; she was the first to hold out her hand.

‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

He had taken her small gloved hand within his large one, all pastel-stained as it was.  Both hands remained like that for a few moments, closely and cordially pressed.  The young girl was still smiling at him, and he had a question on the tip of his tongue:  ’When shall I see you again?’ But he felt ashamed to ask it, and after waiting a while she withdrew her hand.

‘Good-bye, monsieur.’

‘Good-bye, mademoiselle.’

Christine, without another glance, was already descending the steep ladder-like stairway whose steps creaked, when Claude turned abruptly into his studio, closing the door with a bang, and shouting to himself:  ‘Ah, those confounded women!’

He was furious—­furious with himself, furious with everyone.  Kicking about the furniture, he continued to ease his feelings in a loud voice.  Was not he right in never allowing them to cross his threshold?  They only turned a fellow’s head.  What proof had he after all that yonder chit with the innocent look, who had just gone, had not fooled him most abominably?  And he had been silly enough to believe in her cock-and-bull stories!  All his suspicions revived.  No one would ever make him swallow that fairy tale of the general’s widow, the railway accident, and especially the cabman.  Did such things ever happen in real life?  Besides, that mouth of hers told a strange tale, and her looks had been very singular just as she was going.  Ah! if he could only have understood why she had told him all those lies; but no, they were profitless, inexplicable.  It was art for art’s sake.  How she must be laughing at him by this time.