who sat at the far end of the studio in a state of nature, with one arm gallantly arched above her head. My errand would have been difficult enough under the best of circumstances: placed between Myner, immersed in his art, and the white, fat, naked female in a ridiculous attitude, I found it quite impossible. Again and again I attempted to approach the point, again and again fell back on commendations of the picture; and it was not until the model had enjoyed an interval of repose, during which she took the conversation in her own hands and regaled us (in a soft, weak voice) with details as to her husband's prosperity, her sister's lamented decline from the paths of virtue, and the consequent wrath of her father, a peasant of stern principles, in the vicinity of Chalons on the Marne—it was not, I say, until after this was over, and I had once more cleared my throat for the attack, and once more dropped aside into some commonplace about the picture, that Myner himself brought me suddenly and vigorously to the point.
“You didn't come here to talk this rot,” said he.
“No,” I replied sullenly; “I came to borrow money.”
He painted awhile in silence.
“I don't think we were ever very intimate?” he asked.
“Thank you,” said I. “I can take my answer,” and I made as if to go, rage boiling in my heart.
“Of course you can go if you like,” said Myner; “but I advise you to stay and have it out.”
“What more is there to say?” I cried. “You don't want to keep me here for a needless humiliation?”
“Look here, Dodd, you must try and command your temper,” said he. “This interview is of your own seeking, and not mine; if you suppose it's not disagreeable to me, you're wrong; and if you think I will give you money without knowing thoroughly about
