fraid...."

She lifted her eyes and they gazed at each other. Their eyes were so
loyal!

"I trust you," said she.

She closed her eyes. She felt that she was sacred to him.

They let go hands. The tram was about to start. Pierre's gaze questioned
Luce.

"What day?" he demanded.

"Thursday," she replied. "Come about two."

At the moment of parting she regained her roguish smile; she whispered
in his ear:

"And you must bring your photo just the same. I am not strong enough to
paint without the photo.... Yes, yes, I know you have some, you naughty
little humbug."

* * * * *

OUT beyond the Malakoff. Streets like broken teeth separated by vague
regions losing themselves in a dubious kind of country-side where among
boarded enclosures blossom the cabins of ragpickers. The gray dull sky
is lying low over the colorless ground whose thin edges smoke with the
fog. The air is chill. The house easy to find: there are only three of
them on one side of the road. The last of the three; it has no neighbor
across the street. It has but one story with a little courtyard which is
surrounded by a picket fence; two or three starveling trees, a square
patch of kitchen garden under the snow.

Pierre has made no noise on entering; the snow deadens his steps. But
the curtains of the ground floor are in motion; and when he reaches the
door, the door opens and Luce is on the threshold. In the half light of
the hall they say good day in a choking voice, and she ushers him into
the first apartment which serves as dining-room. There it is that she
works: her easel is installed near the window. At first they do not know
what to say to one another: both have thought over this visit altogether
too much beforehand; none of the speeches they had prepared is able to
come forth; and they talk in a halfvoice, although there is nobody else
in the house--and it's just for that reason. They stay seated at some
distance from each other with their arms rigid; and he has not even
thrown back the collar of his cloak. They chat about the cold weather
and the hours of the tramcars. They are unhappy to feel themselves so
silly.

At last she makes an effort and asks if he has brought the photographs,
and scarcely has he taken them from his pocket when both pluck up a
spirit. These pictures are the intermediaries over whose heads the chat
revives; for now the two are not entirely alone; there are eyes that
look at you and they are not embarrass