Before I could protest at that deadly insult he took my hands and squeezed them hard, and he said:
“I believe we speak the same language after all. We think it, anyway, don’t we?”
XLVI
I HAD been posing all afternoon. Bonnat still insisted on my coming each Sunday, although the other men were through with me for the time being. I was not sure that Bonnat could really afford to have a model alone, and I often thought I should not go; but somehow I found myself unable to keep away. All week long I looked forward to that afternoon in Paul Bonnat’s studio, and the thought that they could not last made me feel very badly.
“Look at the time!” He pointed dramatically to the clock on the shelf. It was upside down. Then he regarded me remorsefully:
“You must be tired out, and hungry, too. What do you say to having dinner with me to-night? How about one of those awful Italian table-d’hotes, where they give you ten courses with red ink for the price of a sandwich? Will that suit you?”
I was seized with a distaste to go out in the rain, even with Bonnat, to one those melancholy restaurants. I looked about me, and sighing, said:
“I wish I had a place to cook. I’m awfully tired of restaurants.”
“What, can you cook?” he demanded excitedly, just as if he had discovered some miraculous talent in me.
“Why, yes,” I said proudly. “And I love to, too. I can cook anything,” I added sweepingly.