ancholy destiny, to have gone
abroad in such weather, without fear of the darkness, of the mud.

Some one has entered the studio, a heavier step than Constance's
mouse-like trot. The little servant, doubtless. And Felicia says
roughly, without turning:

"Go to bed. I am not at home to any one."

"I should be very glad to speak with you if you were," a voice replied
good-naturedly.

She starts, rises, and says in a softer tone, almost laughing at sight
of that unexpected visitor:

"Ah! it's you, young Minerva! How did you get in?"

"Very easily. All the doors are open."

"I am not surprised. Constance has been like a madwoman ever since
morning, with her dinner."

"Yes, I saw. The reception room is full of flowers. You have--?"

"Oh! a stupid dinner, an official dinner. I don't know how I ever made
up my mind to it. Sit down here, beside me. I am glad to see you."

Paul sat down, a little perturbed in mind. She had never seemed so
lovely to him. In the half-light of the studio, amid the confusion of
objects of art, bronzes, tapestries, her pallor cast a soft light, her
eyes shone like jewels, and her long, close-fitting riding habit
outlined the negligent attitude of her goddess-like figure. Then her
tone was so affectionate, she seemed so pleased at his call. Why had he
stayed away so long? It was almost a month since she had seen him. Had
they ceased to be friends, pray? He excused himself as best he could.
Business, a journey. Moreover, although he had not been there, he had
often talked about her, oh! very often, almost every day.

"Really? With whom?"

"With--"

He was on the point of saying: "With Aline Joyeuse," but something
checked him, an indefinable sentiment, a sort of shame at uttering that
name in the studio which had heard so many other names. There are some
things which do not go together, although one cannot tell why. Paul
preferred to answer with a falsehood which led him straight to the
object of his call.

"With an excellent man upon whom you have unnecessarily inflicted great
pain. Tell me, why haven't you finished the poor Nabob's bust? It was a
source of great joy and great pride to him, the thought of that bust at
the Salon. He relied upon it."

At the name of the Nabob she was slightly embarrassed.

"It is true," she said, "I broke my word. What do you expect? I am the
slave of my whims. But it is my purpose to take it up again one of these
days. See, the cloth thrown over it