He shook his head. "No," he said, trying to answer the question in the same jesting tone as that in which it had been asked.
"Then what is wrong? Confide in me."
He cleared his throat. "In fact, I----" he began.
Then, perceiving Erika, "Ah, ready so soon?" he cried. "Let us go to work."
She could not find the pose immediately: he was obliged to move her right arm. His hand was as hot as if burning with fever, and he had scarcely touched the girl's arm with it when he withdrew it hastily.
He went to the easel, gazed long and with half-closed eyes at his model, then turned and began to paint.
Usually there was a constant flow of conversation between Erika and himself. To-day he spoke not a word; perfect silence reigned in the studio; the turning of the leaves of the novel which the old Countess was reading and the twittering of the birds in the garden outside, were audible; one could even hear now and then the sweep of the brush upon the canvas.
Thus an hour passed. Then, stepping back a few paces from the picture, he fixed his eyes upon Erika, added a few touches with his brush, and looked from her to the portrait.
"Look at it yourself," he said, with a hard emphasis on each syllable. "So far as I can finish it, it is done. I cannot improve it!"
Both ladies went and stood before it. "I do not know whether it is like," said Erika, "but it certainly is a masterpiece."