What she said was:  “Monsieur Marien, I recommend to you these little spiced cakes.”  And, with some awkwardness, because her hand was trembling, she held out the plate to him.

“No, thank you, Mademoiselle,” he said, affecting a tone of great ceremony, “I prefer to take this glass of punch, if you will permit me.”

“The punch is cold, I fear; suppose we were to put a little tea in it.  Stay—­let me help you.”

“A thousand thanks; but I like to attend to such little cookeries myself.  By the way, it seems to me that Mademoiselle Giselle, in her character of an angel who disapproves of the good things of this life, has not left us much to eat at your table.”

“Who—­I?” cried the poor schoolgirl, in a tone of injured innocence and astonishment.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Jacqueline, as if taking her under her protection.  “He is nothing but a tease; what he says is only chaff.  But I might as well talk Greek to her,” she added, shrugging her shoulders.  “In the convent they don’t know what to make of a joke.  Only spare her at least, if you please, Monsieur Marien.”

“I know by report that Mademoiselle Giselle is worthy of the most profound respect,” continued the pitiless painter.  “I lay myself at her feet—­and at yours.  Now I am going to slip away in the English fashion.  Good-evening.”

“Why do you go so soon?  You can’t do any more work today.”

“No, it has been a day lost—­that is true.”

“That’s polite!  By the way”—­here Jacqueline became very red and she spoke rapidly—­“what made you just now stare at me so persistently?”

“I?  Impossible that I could have permitted myself to stare at you, Mademoiselle.”

“That is just what you did, though.  I thought you had found something to find fault with.  What could it be?  I fancied there was something wrong with my hair, something absurd that you were laughing at.  You always do laugh, you know.”

“Wrong with your hair?  It is always wrong.  But that is not your fault.  You are not responsible for its looking like a hedgehog’s.”

“Hedgehogs haven’t any hair,” said Jacqueline, much hurt by the observation.

“True, they have only prickles, which remind me of the susceptibility of your temper.  I beg your pardon I was looking at you critically.  Being myself indulgent and kindhearted, I was only looking at you from an artist’s point of view—­as is always allowable in my profession.  Remember, I see you very rarely by daylight.  I am obliged to work as long as the light allows me.  Well, in the light of this April sunshine I was saying to myself—­excuse my boldness!—­that you had reached the right age for a picture.”

“For a picture?  Were you thinking of painting me?” cried Jacqueline, radiant with pleasure.

“Hold a moment, please.  Between a dream and its execution lies a great space.  I was only imagining a picture of you.”