"Madame," I cried, "if I only could!"
"What is your charge for portraits, Mr. Asticot?"
Paragot set down his tea-cup and looked at me with a shade of anxiety. We were having tea at the Hôtel Meurice.
"The pleasure of looking a long time at the sitter, Madame," said I.
"That is very well said, my son," Paragot remarked.
"You will not make a fortune that way. However, if you will play for love this time—"
She smiled and handed me the cakes.
"Where did you say your studio was?"
"But, Madame, you can't go there!" I expostulated. "It is in the slums of Menilmontant beyond the Cemetery of Père Lachaise. The place is all tumbling down—and Cazalet sleeps there."
"Who is Cazalet?"