"You work three hours a day and earn more in a week than your father and I do in a month. Yours is a very unhappy lot."
"I hate the smell of paints; I hate the studio."
"And I suppose you hate your fame?" acridly.
"Bah! that is my card to a living. The people I meet bore me."
"Not satisfied with common folks, eh? Must have kings and queens to talk to?"
"I only want to live abroad, and you and father will not let me,"—petulantly.
The music started up, and I heard no more. Occasionally the girl glanced at me and smiled in a friendly fashion. She was evidently an artist's model; and when they have hair and color like this girl's, the pay is good. I found myself wondering why she was bored and why Carmen had so suddenly lost its charms.
It was seven o'clock when I pushed aside my plate and paid my check. I calculated that by hustling I could reach Blankshire either at ten or ten-thirty. That would be early enough for my needs. And now to route out a costumer. All I needed was a grey mask. I had in my apartments a Capuchin's robe and cowl. I rose, lighting a cigarette.
The girl looked up from her coffee.
"Back to the dime-museum?"—banteringly.