Some one has entered the studio, a heavier step than Constance's mouse-like trot. The little servant, doubtless. And Felicia says roughly, without turning:
"Go to bed. I am not at home to any one."
"I should be very glad to speak with you if you were," a voice replied good-naturedly.
She starts, rises, and says in a softer tone, almost laughing at sight of that unexpected visitor:
"Ah! it's you, young Minerva! How did you get in?"
"Very easily. All the doors are open."
"I am not surprised. Constance has been like a madwoman ever since morning, with her dinner."
"Yes, I saw. The reception room is full of flowers. You have—?"
"Oh! a stupid dinner, an official dinner. I don't know how I ever made up my mind to it. Sit down here, beside me. I am glad to see you."
Paul sat down, a little perturbed in mind. She had never seemed so lovely to him. In the half-light of the studio, amid the confusion of objects of art, bronzes, tapestries, her pallor cast a soft light, her eyes shone like jewels, and her long, close-fitting riding habit outlined the negligent attitude of her goddess-like figure. Then her tone was so affectionate, she seemed so pleased at his call. Why had he stayed away so long? It was almost a month since she had seen him. Had they ceased to be friends, pray? He excused himself as best he could. Business, a journey. Moreover, although he had not been there, he had often talked about her, oh! very often, almost every day.