“Really?  And with whom?”

“With——­”

He was going to say “With Aline Joyeuse,” but a feeling of restraint stopped him, an undefinable sentiment, a sense of shame at pronouncing her name in the studio which had heard so many others.  There are things that do not go together, one scarcely knows why.  Paul preferred to reply with a falsehood, which brought him at once to the object of his visit.

“With an excellent fellow to whom you have given very unnecessary pain.  Come, why have you not finished the poor Nabob’s bust?  It was a great joy to him, such a very proud thing for him, to have that bust in the exhibition.  He counted upon it.”

At the Nabob’s name she was slightly troubled.

“It is true,” she said, “I broke my word.  But what do you expect?  I am made of caprice.  See, the cover is over it; all wet, so that the clay does not harden.”

“And the accident?  You know, we didn’t believe in it.”

“Then you were wrong.  I never lie.  It had a fall, a most awful upset; only the clay was fresh, and I easily repaired it.  Look!”

With a sweeping gesture she lifted the cover.  The Nabob suddenly appeared before them, his jolly face beaming with the pleasure of being portrayed; so like, so tremendously himself, that Paul gave a cry of admiration.

“Isn’t it good?” she said artlessly.  “Still a few touches here and there—­” She had taken the chisel and the little sponge and pushed the stand into what remained of the daylight.  “It could be done in a few hours.  But it couldn’t go to the exhibition.  To-day is the 22nd; all the exhibits have been in a long time.”

“Bah!  With influence——­”

She frowned, and her bad expression came back, her mouth turning down.

“That’s true.  The protege of the Duc de Mora.  Oh! you have no need to apologize.  I know what people say, and I don’t care that—­” and she threw a little ball of clay at the wall, where it stuck, flat.  “Perhaps men, by dint of supposing the thing which is not—­But let us leave these infamies alone,” she said, holding up her aristocratic head.  “I really want to please you, Minerva.  Your friend shall go to the Salon this year.”

Just then a smell of caramel and warm pastry filled the studio, where the shadows were falling like a fine gray dust, and the fairy appeared, a dish of sweetmeats in her hand.  She looked more fairy-like than ever, bedecked and rejuvenated; dressed in a white gown which showed her beautiful arms through sleeves of old lace; they were beautiful still, for the arm is the beauty that fades last.

“Look at my kuchen, dearie; they are such a success this time.  Oh!  I beg your pardon.  I did not see you had friends.  And it is M. Paul!  How are you M. Paul?  Taste one of my cakes.”

And the charming old lady, whose dress seemed to lend her an extraordinary vivacity, came towards him, balancing the plate on the tips of her tiny fingers.