great unrecognized artist, if she had shown at this
moment a loftier judgment, if she had evinced a sentiment superior to those of other women. On the
other hand the contemptuous manner of Lirat, his
tone of bitter hostility, shocked me deeply! I had a
grudge against him for this affected rudeness, for this
attitude of boyish insolence which lowered him in my
esteem, I thought. I was displeased and very much
embarrassed. I tried to speak of indifferent things,
but not a single object of conversation came to my
mind.
The young woman got up. She walked a few steps in the studio, stopped before the sketches lying in a heap, examined one or two of them with an air of disgust.
"My God! Monsieur Lirat," she said, "why do you persist in painting such ugly women, so comically shaped?"
"If I should tell you," Lirat replied, "you would not understand it."
"Thanks! . . . And when will you paint my portrait?"
"You should ask Monsieur Jacket or, better still, a photographer about that."
"Monsieur Lirat?"
"Madame!"
"Do you know why I came?"
"To oblige me with your kindness, I suppose."
"That's in the first place! . . . And then?"
"We seem to be playing an innocent little game? That's very nice."
"To ask you to come to dine with me on Friday? Do you care to?"
"You are very kind, dear Madame, but on Friday that is just when it will be utterly impossible. That's my day at the Institute."
