“Shall I come now?” she said instantly, observing and perhaps divining the reason of his agitation.
“No, no,” he said hastily, respecting the mood. “After working hours, not before.”
He crossed to his own studio, rebelling bitterly at the persistence of her self-sacrifice. But providentially, the model he had engaged was already waiting for him, an old toper, scavenger of small beers and wine drippings from the fragrant hogsheads of West Franklin Street, who had caught his fancy the day before. He was placidly asleep in a sort of musty drowsiness and he did not stir at Dangerfield’s entrance. Something grotesquely humorous in the gourd-like head, sunk in childish slumber, caught his imagination immediately. He tiptoed over to his easel, brought out a canvas and stealthily prepared for a rapid sketch. At the noise of a falling tube the blissful Falstaff slowly opened one eye and prepared to awake.
“Don’t move!” said Dangerfield hastily.
“Eh? What you mean?”
“Go to sleep immediately,” said Dangerfield sternly, too interested to perceive the humor of the situation.
“Sleep? That all you want?” said the amateur without astonishment.
“Go to sleep at once,—just as you are,” said Dangerfield, with the voice of a drill master.
His sitter, nothing loth, nodded drowsily, the heavy lids slowly settled against the bloated cheek, and in a moment a kettle-like breathing announced that he had obeyed to the letter.
When, an hour later, Inga came in, Dangerfield sent her a warning sign. She tiptoed over and took her seat by his side, waiting quietly until another half hour had brought the end of the afternoon’s painting.