k against it, panting--and saw Paul Mario
approaching from the direction of Chauvin's.

VIII

In the glance which Paul gave Flamby there was something odic and
strange. He experienced a consciousness of giving and a consciousness of
loss. Flamby was aware of intense shame and mad joy. She threw her arm
over her bare shoulder to hide it and shrank back against the door not
daring to raise her eyes again. She was trembling violently. Beneath her
downcast lashes she could see the door of Chauvin's studio, and suddenly
she determined to fly there for shelter, as had been her original
intention. She started--but Paul held her fast. Flamby hid her face
against his coat.

"Flamby--who has done this?" Paul's voice was very low and very steady.

Flamby swallowed emotionally, but already her quick wit was at work
again and she realised that Paul must be prevented from entering James's
studio, must be spared a sight of the picture which lay upon the floor.
"We were--just ragging," she said tremulously, "and it got too rough. So
I--ran out My dress is torn, you see." She did not look up. Paul's
Harris tweed coat had a faint odour of peat and tobacco. She realised
that she was clutching him for support.

He was carrying a light Burberry on his arm, and he held it open for
her. "Slip this on, Flamby," he said, in the same low, steady voice,
"and sit there on the ledge for a moment." He helped her to put on the
coat, which enveloped her grotesquely, led her to the low parapet which
surrounded the figure of the dancing faun and stepped toward the door of
James's studio.

Flamby leapt up and clutched his arm with both hands. "No, no!" she
cried. "You must not go in there! Oh, please listen to me! I don't want
you to go in."

Paul half turned, looking down at her. "Don't excite yourself, Flamby. I
shall not be a moment."

But she clutched him persistently until, looking swiftly up at him, she
saw the pallor of his olive skin and the expression in his eyes. She
allowed him to unlock her fingers from his arm and she dropped down
weakly on to the narrow stone ledge as he crossed to the studio door. It
was very still in the courtyard. Some sparrows were chirping up on a
roof, but the sounds of the highroad were muted and dim. Paul grasped
the brass handle and sought to turn it. As he did so Flamby realised
that James had bolted the door. Paul stood for a moment looking at the
massive oak and then turned away, rejoining Flamby. "C