Constance used to laugh till the tears came, in spite of herself. The resemblance was so perfect.
“All the same, you are too hard. You will end by driving him away altogether.”
“Little fear of that,” a shake of the girl’s head would reply.
In effect he always came back, pleasant, amiable, dissimulating his passion, which was visible only when it grew jealous of newcomers, paying assiduous attention to the old dancer, who, in spite of everything, found his good-nature pleasing and recognised in him a man of her own time, of the time when one accosted a woman with a kiss on her hand, with a compliment on her appearance.
One morning, Jenkins having called in the course of his round, found Constance alone and doing nothing in the antechamber.
“You see, doctor, I am on guard,” she remarked tranquilly.
“How is that?”
“Felicia is at work. She wishes not to be disturbed; and the servants are so stupid, I am myself seeing that her orders are obeyed.”
Then, seeing that the Irishman made a step towards the studio:
“No, no, don’t go in. She told me very particularly not to let any one go in.”