“Yes; nothing does you any good but work. I worked in the atelier—that's the French for studio—all the morning, and in the afternoon I painted from the nude in a public studio. I had such a nice studio—such a jolly little place. I was up every morning at eight o'clock, my model arrived at nine, and I worked without stopping (barring the ten or twelve minutes' rest at the end of every hour) till twelve. Then I went to the cafe to have breakfast—how I used to enjoy those breakfasts—fried eggs all swimming in butter, a cutlet, after, nice bread and butter, then cock your legs up, drink your coffee, and smoke your cigarette till one.”
“Did you like the French cafe better than the 'Gaiety'?”
“It is impossible to compare them. I made a great deal of progress. I began one picture of a woman in a hammock, a recollection of you. You remember when we passed under those cedar branches, close to the 'Roebuck,' we saw a hammock hung by the water's edge, and I said I would like to see you in it, and stand by and rock you. I had intended to send it to the Academy, but I never could finish it, the French model was not what I wanted—I wanted you; and I was obliged to leave France, and I could get no one in Southwick. Once a fellow changes his model he is done for; he never can find his idea again.”
“Where's Southwick?”
“A village outside Brighton, three or four miles, not more. I have a studio there; you must come and see it.”
“You must paint me. But what would your lady love say if she found me in your studio? She'd have me out of it pretty quick. Tell me about her; I want to hear how you fell in love.”
“It happened in the most curious, quite providential way. I have told you that I knew them since I was a boy. Maggie has often sat on my knee.”
“Maggie is her name, then?”
“Yes, don't you like the name? I do. Her brother was a school-fellow of mine. We were at Eton together, and one time when Mount Rorke was away travelling they asked me to spend my holidays at Southwick. That's how I got to know them. One day Maggie and Sally were at my studio; Sally has a sweetheart—”
The sentence was cut short by a sudden roar. The train had entered a tunnel, and the speakers made pause, seeing each other vaguely in the dim light, and when they emerged into the cold April twilight Frank told the story of Triss and Berkins, Mr. Brookes struggling with the door, and the girls rushing screaming from their hiding-place; and Frank's imitation of Berkin's pomposity amused Lizzie, and she laughed till she cried. He continued till the joke was worn bare; then, fearing he had been talking too much of himself, he said: “Now, I have been very candid with you, tell me about yourself.”