ers,
paying assiduous attention to the old dancer, who, in spite of
everything, found his good-nature pleasing and recognised in him a man
of her own time, of the time when one accosted a woman with a kiss on
her hand, with a compliment on her appearance.

One morning, Jenkins having called in the course of his round, found
Constance alone and doing nothing in the antechamber.

"You see, doctor, I am on guard," she remarked tranquilly.

"How is that?"

"Felicia is at work. She wishes not to be disturbed; and the servants
are so stupid, I am myself seeing that her orders are obeyed."

Then, seeing that the Irishman made a step towards the studio:

"No, no, don't go in. She told me very particularly not to let any one
go in."

"But I?"

"I beg you not. You would get me a scolding."

Jenkins was about to take his leave when a burst of laughter from
Felicia, coming through the curtains, made him prick up his ears.

"She is not alone, then?"

"No, the Nabob is with her. They are having a sitting for the portrait."

"And why this mystery? It is a very singular thing." He commenced to
walk backward and forward, evidently very angry, but containing his
wrath.

At last he burst forth.

It was an unheard-of impropriety to let a girl thus shut herself in with
a man.

He was surprised that one so serious, so devoted as Constance--What did
it look like?

The old lady looked at him with stupefaction. As though Felicia were
like other girls! And then what danger was there with the Nabob, so
staid a man and so ugly? Besides, Jenkins ought to know quite well that
Felicia never consulted anybody, that she always had her own way.

"No, no, it is impossible! I cannot tolerate this," exclaimed the
Irishman.

And, without paying any further heed to the dancer, who raised her arms
to heaven as a call upon it to witness what was about to happen, he
moved towards the studio; but, instead of entering immediately, he
softly half-opened the door and raised a corner of the hangings, whereby
the portion of the room in which the Nabob was posing became visible to
him, although at a considerable distance.

Jansoulet, seated without cravat and with his waist-coat open, was
talking apparently in some agitation and in a low voice. Felicia was
replying in a similar tone, in laughing whispers. The sitting was very
animated. Then a silence, a silken rustle of skirts, and the artist,
going up to her model, turned down his linen coll