"Why could not you hold your tongue?" said the painter to Sarah. "In another moment you would have told the Princess Olsdorf that you are my mistress."
"So I ought to have done," the young girl said, angrily, "since you are her lover."
"Her lover—you are mad."
"If I am mad, I am not so blind nor such a fool as you think. I would bet it is this fine lady that has given you all these things. That is becoming, isn't it?"
"You don't know what you are talking about. If you are going to make these scenes with me you had better not come here any more."
"That is it—you are turning me off. Come, swear that you are not the lover of this woman."
Her eyes glittering, her voice threatening, she had seized the painter's hands.
"You worry me," he said, pulling them away roughly.
"So I have guessed right," exclaimed the model. "Well, I will have my revenge on her and on you, too. Ah, women of good society take our lovers from us; they buy them. We shall see. This princess has a husband somewhere or other."
"You are mistaken; she is a widow."