“Sorry,” I said, “she doesn’t belong to us. We’ve just borrowed her for the afternoon.”
“I see. What a beautiful type! English, I should imagine?”
“No, that’s what makes her so different—French.”
He looked at her as if fascinated.
“I’d like awfully to make a sketch of her, if you can get her to stand still.”
At that moment there was no difficulty, for the Môme was gazing in round-eyed awe at the ferocious Turk’s head pipe in the sculptor’s mouth. So Helstern took a chair, whipped out his sketch-book, and before the fascinated child could recover he had completed a graceful little sketch.
“Splendid!” I said.
Anastasia, too, was enthusiastic; but when the Môme, who was now nestling in her arms, saw it she uttered a scream of delight.
“If you just sit still a little,” said Helstern eagerly, “while I do another one for myself, I’ll give you this one to take home to your mother.”
The Môme was very timid; but we posed her sitting on the end of the stone seat, with one slim leg bent under her and the other dangling down, while she scattered some crumbs for the fat sparrows at her feet. Against the background of a lilac bush she made a charming picture, and Helstern worked with an enthusiasm that made his eyes gleam, and his stern face relax. This time he used a fine pencil of sepia tint, working with the broad of it so as to get soft effects of shadow. True, he idealised almost beyond resemblance; but what a delicate, graceful picture he made!