for this

great unrecognized artist, if she had shown at this moment a loftier judgment, if she had evinced a sentiment superior to those of other women. On the other hand the contemptuous manner of Lirat, his tone of bitter hostility, shocked me deeply! I had a grudge against him for this affected rudeness, for this attitude of boyish insolence which lowered him in my esteem, I thought. I was displeased and very much embarrassed. I tried to speak of indifferent things, but not a single object of conversation came to my mind.

The young woman got up. She walked a few steps in the studio, stopped before the sketches lying in a heap, examined one or two of them with an air of disgust.

" My God ! Monsieur Lirat," she said, " why do you persist in painting such ugly women, so comically shaped?"

" If I should tell you," Lirat replied, " you would not understand it."

" Thanks ! . . . And when will you paint my portrait?"

" You should ask Monsieur Jacket or, better still, a photographer about that."

" Monsieur Lirat? "

"Madame!"

" Do you know why I came ? "

" To oblige me with your kindness, I suppose."

" That's in the first place ! . . . And then ? "

"We seem to be playing an innocent little game? That's very nice."

"To ask you to come to dine with me on Friday? Do you care to ? "

" You are very kind, dear Madame, but on Friday that is just when it will be utterly impossible. That's my day at the Institute."