“Never,” he thought, “was it half so pretty when worn by Madame de Nailles as by her stepdaughter.”

Jacqueline meantime went on talking.

“You must know—­I was rather perplexed what to do—­almost all mamma’s gowns made me look horribly too old.  Modeste tried them on me one after another.  We burst out laughing, they seemed so absurd.  And then we were afraid mamma might chance to want the one I took.  This old thing it was not likely she would ask for.  She had worn it only once, and then put it away.  The gauze is a little yellow from lying by, don’t you think so?  But we asked my father, who said it was all right, that I should look less dark in it, and that the dress was of no particular date, which was always an advantage.  These Grecian dresses are always in the fashion.  Ah! four years ago mamma was much more slender than she is now.  But we have taken it in—­oh! we took it in a great deal under the arms, but we had to let it down.  Would you believe it?—­I am taller than mamma—­but you can hardly see the seam, it is concealed by the gold embroidery.”

“No matter for that.  We shall only take a three-quarters’ length,” said Marien.

“Oh, what a pity!  No one will see I have a long skirt on.  But I shall be ‘decolletee’, at any rate.  I shall wear a comb.  No one would know the picture for me—­nobody!—­You yourself hardly knew me—­did you?”

“Not at first sight.  You are much altered.”

“Mamma will be amazed,” said Jacqueline, clasping her hands.  “It was a good idea!”

“Amazed, I do not doubt,” said Marien, somewhat anxiously.  “But suppose we take our pose—­Stay!—­keep just as you are.  Your hands before you, hanging down—­so.  Your fingers loosely clasped—­that’s it.  Turn your head a little.  What a lovely neck!—­how well her head is set upon it!” he cried, involuntarily.

Jacqueline glanced at Fraulein Schult, who was at the farther end of the studio, busy with her crochet.  “You see,” said the look, “that he has found out I am pretty—­that I am worth something—­all the rest will soon happen.”

And, while Marien was sketching in the graceful figure that posed before him, Jacqueline’s imagination was investing it with the white robe of a bride.  She had a vision of the painter growing more and more resolved to ask her hand in marriage as the portrait grew beneath his brush; of course, her father would say at first:  “You are mad—­you must wait.  I shall not let Jacqueline marry till she is seventeen.”  But long engagements, she had heard, had great delights, though in France they are not the fashion.  At last, after being long entreated, she was sure that M. and Madame de Nailles would end by giving their consent—­they were so fond of Marien.  Standing there, dreaming this dream, which gave her face an expression of extreme happiness, Jacqueline made a most admirable model.  She had not felt in the least fatigued when Marien at last said to her, apologetically:  “You must be ready to drop—­I forgot you were not made of wood; we will go on to-morrow.”