He understood that she took him for a minion of the agent's, and he hesitated whether to correct her mistake immediately. However, candour seemed the better course.
"I do not bring a message from monsieur Lavalette, mademoiselle," he explained.
"No?"
"No."
"What then?"
"I have ventured to address you on my own account—on a matter of the most urgent importance."
"I have no small change," she said curtly, making to pass.
"Mademoiselle!" His outraged dignity was superb. "You mistake me first for an office-boy, and then for a beggar. I am a man of means, though my costume may be unconventional. My name is Théodosc Goujaud."
Her bow intimated that the name was not significant; but her exquisite eyes had softened at the reference to his means.
"For weeks I have been seeking a face for a picture that I have conceived," he went on; "a face of such peculiar beauty that I despaired of finding it! I had the joy to see you enter the agency, and I waited, trembling with the prayer that I might persuade you to come to my aid. Mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to allow me to reproduce the magic of your features on my canvas? I entreat it of you in the sacred name of Art!"