M. Marot and Lerouge became suddenly interested in a sketch upon the wall and rose, puffing their cigars, to make a closer and more leisurely examination.
Jean's hand somehow came in contact with Andrée's,—does any one know how these things come about?—and the girl's cheeks grew more rosy than usual. She straightway forgot Mlle. Fouchette. Her eyes were lowered and she gently removed her hand from the table.
"Here is the true model for an artist," said he.
"But I never sat," she declared.
"Oh, don't be too sure."
"Never; wouldn't I remember it?"
"Perhaps not. One doesn't always remember everything."
She blushed through her smile. She had unconsciously yielded her hand again.
They talked airy nothings that conceal the thoughts. Then, in a few minutes, she discovered that his hand again covered hers and was innocently caressing it. She drew it away in alarm.
"Do not take it away! Are we not cousins, mademoiselle?"