“If you want it, take it. I won’t sell it. I’ll give it to you.”
They came back into the studio. Caracal, well pleased with the gift, swung his monocle familiarly. Then they talked of other things, of yesterday’s ball, of the “Tocsin,” whose sensational head-lines stared at them from the floor.
“What do you think of that?” Phil asked, pointing to the newspaper.
“It’s idiotic, mon cher, utterly idiotic. I don’t know where Vieillecloche picks up such asinine stuff.”
“Who does the articles for him?” demanded Phil.
“Who knows?” answered Caracal.
With a glance at the clock, Phil excused himself.
“Will you permit me? I must get ready—the concierge is going to do up the studio. Be seated, please; I’ll be with you again in a moment.”
Caracal sat down on a lounge to wait for Phil, who went to his room to change his Indian costume.
The concierge returned. He began dusting the studio, and in his zeal rubbed off half a pastel with his feather duster. He pulled the veil from sketches, and set the easels in place. The studio began to be peopled with half-finished portraits, with designs, with studies of every kind, representing an immense amount of labor. The canvas of Morgana, in particular, rid of the cover which veiled it, illuminated all with a glow of legend. The figure of the fairy queen was barely indicated; but Helia was to pose for Phil, as she had promised, and with a month’s work all would be finished.