e it couldn't compare--it wouldn't be so 'andsome! But I do
hate them portraits!' Miss Geraldine declared. 'It's so much bread out
of our mouths.'

'Well, there are many who can't paint them,' Lyon suggested,
comfortingly.

'Oh, I've sat to the very first--and only to the first! There's many
that couldn't do anything without me.'

'I'm glad you're in such demand.' Lyon was beginning to be bored and he
added that he wouldn't detain her--he would send for her in case of
need.

'Very well; remember it's the Mews--more's the pity! You don't sit so
well as _us_!' Miss Geraldine pursued, looking at the Colonel. 'If _you_
should require me, sir----'

'You put him out; you embarrass him,' said Lyon.

'Embarrass him, oh gracious!' the visitor cried, with a laugh which
diffused a fragrance. 'Perhaps _you_ send postcards, eh?' she went on to
the Colonel; and then she retreated with a wavering step. She passed out
into the garden as she had come.

'How very dreadful--she's drunk!' said Lyon. He was painting hard, but
he looked up, checking himself: Miss Geraldine, in the open doorway, had
thrust back her head.

'Yes, I do hate it--that sort of thing!' she cried with an explosion of
mirth which confirmed Lyon's declaration. And then she disappeared.

'What sort of thing--what does she mean?' the Colonel asked.

'Oh, my painting you, when I might be painting her.'

'And have you ever painted her?'

'Never in the world; I have never seen her. She is quite mistaken.'

The Colonel was silent a moment; then he remarked, 'She was very
pretty--ten years ago.'

'I daresay, but she's quite ruined. For me the least drop too much
spoils them; I shouldn't care for her at all.'

'My dear fellow, she's not a model,' said the Colonel, laughing.

'To-day, no doubt, she's not worthy of the name; but she has been one.'

'_Jamais de la vie!_ That's all a pretext.'

'A pretext?' Lyon pricked up his ears--he began to wonder what was
coming now.

'She didn't want you--she wanted me.'

'I noticed she paid you some attention. What does she want of you?'

'Oh, to do me an ill turn. She hates me--lots of women do. She's
watching me--she follows me.'

Lyon leaned back in his chair--he didn't believe a word of this. He was
all the more delighted with it and with the Colonel's bright, candid
manner. The story had bloomed, fragrant, on the spot. 'My dear Colonel!'
he murmured, with friendly interest and commiseration.

'I was annoye