“My precious Hilda! You need not tell me that! Run quickly and dress, dear, it must be almost dinner-time. What have you to wear? Shall I lend you anything?”
“Why, you forgot my gray silk! My fichu! Insulting Kathy!”
“So I did! And you look deliciously pretty in that dress, though she did make a fiasco of the back; let the fichu come well down over it. You really shouldn’t indulge your passion for petites couturières, child. It doesn’t pay.”
CHAPTER II
ODD climbed the long flight of stairs that led to Hilda’s studio. The concièrge below at the entrance to the court had looked at him with the sourness common to her class, as she stood spaciously in her door. The gentleman had, evidently, definite intentions, for he had asked her no questions, and Madame Prinet felt his independence as a slur upon her Cerberus qualifications.
Odd was putting into practice his brotherly principles. He had spent the morning with Katherine—the fifth morning since their engagement—and time hanging unemployed and heavy on his hands this afternoon, a visit to Hilda seemed altogether desirable. It really behoved him to solve Hilda’s dubious position and, if possible, help her to a more normal outlook; he felt the task far more feasible since that glimpse of gayety and confidence. Indeed he was quite unconscious of Madame Prinet’s suspicious observation as he crossed the court, and the absorption in his pleasant duty held his mind while he wound up the interminable staircase.
His knock at Hilda’s door—there was no mistaking it, for a card bearing her name was neatly nailed thereon—was promptly answered, and Odd found himself face to face with a middle-aged maiden of the artistic type with which Paris swarms; thin, gray-haired, energetic eyes behind eyeglasses, and a huge palette on her arm, so huge that it gave Odd the impression of a misshapen table and blocked the distance out with its brave array of color. Over the lady’s shoulder, Odd caught sight of a canvas of heroic proportions.
“Oh! I thought it was the concièrge,” said the artist, evidently disappointed; “have you come to the right door? I don’t think I know you.”
“No; I don’t know you,” Odd replied, smiling and casting a futile glance around the studio, now fully revealed by the shifting of the palette to a horizontal position.
“I expected to find Miss Archinard. Are you working with her? Will she be back presently?”