Caracal, in spite of his jealous ignorance, could not help admiring the superb production; but he rubbed his hands as he thought of the picture of the cows which he was going to carry away with him. He glanced slyly at Phil, who came back smartly dressed and refreshed from his bath, fit and full of the joy of life, ready for work, in spite of his sleepless night.
CHAPTER II
THE FATA MORGANA
Phil prepared his colors. The ball was forgotten, and the Indian costume was laid away for another year. Outside, the cries of the plumber and old-clo’ man alternated, like a trombone after a fife; and a barrel-organ was grinding below on the sidewalk. Phil, brushes in hand, spoke now and then a word with Caracal, lying on the sofa.
“Here are my visitors,” said Phil, suddenly.
From the stairway came the sound of voices, the light tread of feet, the swish of skirts.
The bell rang.
“I was waiting for you, M. le Duc,” said Phil, as he opened the door. “Come in, I beg of you! Come in, Mlle. Helia!”
“I have brought you Mlle. Helia,” the duke said. “You know, she consents to pose for you. Look! she’s not even tired after such a night!”
“Oh, as for me, I’m used to it,” said Helia,—“a little more or a little less!”
Caracal came bustling up, shaking hands energetically, as he always did.