"She? Oh, she's Miss Araminta Shoddy from Michigan Avenue, Chicago, who
is finishing her education in Paris. She comes here twice a week for
drawing-lessons from the antique, and also in pursuit of general
information, I should think, judging from her questions. Only yesterday
she said, 'Ladies, who can tell me the costume of the Venus de Melos? I
have an idea that it would be stunning for my next fancy-dress ball!'"

"Ladies," cried Miss San Francisco, invisible among the easels, "has
Professor Manley given out the subject of our composition for next
week?"

"Yes," answered a dozen voices--"'The Flight into Egypt.'"

"Oh, Miss Shoddy, Miss Shoddy, _will_ you pose for my Virgin Mother?"
cried another dozen.

[Illustration: THE MORNING LESSON.]

[Illustration: "HE'S GONE, GIRLS!"]

"Oh, Mees Shoddy, if you will pose for my Madonna I will pose for
yours," echoed the Raphaelesque Thingumbobbia.

Just before noon the forest of easels swayed slightly beneath a breeze
of excitement. A masculine step was heard at the door. The model's
expression became if not divine, at least superhuman. The ladies ceased
their chatter, and plied their brushes and crayons with increased
diligence. The morning professor entered, and passed from easel to
easel, commending this, criticising that, rebuking something else,
making a few touches of the brush upon several canvases, crossing others
with a network of charcoal-lines to prove inaccuracy of drawing,
distributed _tres biens_ and _pas mals_ judiciously, and then with a
pleasant "Bon jour, mesdames," passed away, leaving behind him about an
equal measure of delight and dismay.

[Illustration: "H-E-A-VENLY CHEESE FOR A FRANC A POUND?"]

"I hope his bed-clothes will always come up at the foot!" growled
Austina, whose canvas looked like a map of a humming-bird's flight done
in charcoal.

"Let's all subscribe and buy The Angel a bouquet for Christmas," gushed
enthusiastically the British blonde Godsalina, upon whom one of the _pas
mals_ had fallen, and who had the true faith of her nation in the
efficacy of "tips" for sovereign or beggar.

[Illustration: "JE SUIS A VOUS."]

Then the model stretched his legs, returned to his normal and carnal
expression of countenance, and disappeared to return no more till the
morrow, leaving the platform vacant awaiting the nude female model who
was engaged for the afternoon. The atelier was abandoned to Sophie, the
_femme de menage_, who stirred