of
sunshine that streamed through the large window of his studio. Constant
rain had made the middle of August very dull, but his courage for
work returned with the blue sky. His great picture did not make much
progress, albeit he worked at it throughout long, silent mornings, like
the obstinate, pugnacious fellow he was.

All at once there came a knock at his door. He thought that Madame
Joseph, the doorkeeper, was bringing up his lunch, and as the key was
always in the door, he simply called: 'Come in!'

The door had opened; there was a slight rustle, and then all became
still. He went on painting without even turning his head. But the
quivering silence, and the consciousness of some vague gentle breathing
near him, at last made him fidgety. He looked up, and felt amazed; a
woman stood there clad in a light gown, her features half-hidden by a
white veil, and he did not know her, and she was carrying a bunch of
roses, which completed his bewilderment.

All at once he recognised her.

'You, mademoiselle? Well, I certainly didn't expect you!'

It was Christine. He had been unable to restrain that somewhat unamiable
exclamation, which was a cry from the heart itself. At first he had
certainly thought of her; then, as the days went by for nearly a couple
of months without sign of life from her, she had become for him merely a
fleeting, regretted vision, a charming silhouette which had melted away
in space, and would never be seen again.

'Yes, monsieur, it's I. I wished to come. I thought it was wrong not to
come and thank you--'

She blushed and stammered, at a loss for words. She was out of breath,
no doubt through climbing the stairs, for her heart was beating fast.
What! was this long-debated visit out of place after all? It had ended
by seeming quite natural to her. The worst was that, in passing along
the quay, she had bought that bunch of roses with the delicate intention
of thereby showing her gratitude to the young fellow, and the flowers
now dreadfully embarrassed her. How was she to give them to him? What
would he think of her? The impropriety of the whole proceeding had only
struck her as she opened the door.

But Claude, more embarrassed still, resorted to exaggerated politeness.
He had thrown aside his palette and was turning the studio upside down
in order to clear a chair.

'Pray be seated, mademoiselle. This is really a surprise. You are too
kind.'

Once seated, Christine recovered her equanim