patient subject. She
took the pose naturally and scarcely breathed during the weary sittings.
He recalled the early gossip and sought to evoke her as a professional
model. But he gave up in despair. She was hopelessly "ladylike," and to
interpret her adequately, only the decorative patterns of earlier
men--Mignard, Van Loo, Nattier, Largilliere--would translate her native
delicacy.

For nearly four weeks he had laboured on the face, painting it in with
meticulous touches only to rub it out with savage disgust. To transcribe
those tranquil, liquid eyes, their expression more naive than her
daughter's--this had proved too difficult a problem for the usually
facile technique of Falcroft. Give him a brilliant virtuoso theme and he
could handle it with some of the sweep and splendour of the early
Carolus Duran or the brutal elegance of the later Boldini. But Madame
Mineur was a pastoral. She did not express nervous gesture. She was
seldom dynamic. To "do" her in dots like the _pointillistes_ or in
touches after the manner of the earlier impressionists would be
ridiculous. Her abiding charm was her repose. She brought to him the
quiet values of an eighteenth-century eclogue--he saw her as a divinely
artificial shepherdess watching an unreal flock, while the haze of
decorative atmosphere would envelop her, with not a vestige of real life
on the canvas. Yet he knew her as a natural, lovable woman, a mother who
had suffered and would suffer because of her love for her only child.
It was a paradox, like many other paradoxes of art.

The daughter--ah! perhaps she might better suit his style. She was
admirable in her madcap carelessness and exotic colouring. Decidedly he
would paint her when this picture was finished--if it ever would be.

Berenice avoided entering the studio during these sittings. She no
longer jested with her mother about the picture, and with Hubert she
preserved such an air of dignity that he fancied he had offended her. He
usually came to Villiers-le-Bel on an early train three or four times a
week and remained at Chalfontaine until ten o'clock. Never but once had
a severe storm forced him to stay overnight. Since the episode on the
wall he had not attempted any further advances. He felt happy in the
company of Elaine, and gazing into her large eyes rested his spirit. It
was true--he no longer played with ease the role of a soul-hunter. His
youth had been troubled by many adventures, many foolish ones, and n