"Not at all; come along," replied Paul.
And Miette ran gayly after Paul.
An hour later, Monsieur Roger, in his walk, saw at the turning of a pathway lined by young chestnut-trees a scene which brought a smile to his lips. Two camp-stools were placed in front of each other, some distance apart; upon one of these camp-stools Paul was seated, his album and his pencil between his hands; on the other camp-stool was Miss Miette, posing for a portrait. Monsieur Roger approached.
When Miette saw him, she sat up, and, crossing her little arms, cried, with pretended anger,—
"I told you so: he is going to sketch me."
"Oh, Miette," said Paul, softly, "you have spoiled the pose."
Miette turned towards Paul, and, seeing that she had made him angry, returned to her former attitude without saying a word. Monsieur Roger looked at Miette, so pretty, so restless by disposition, now forcing herself to sit quietly, with an expression of determination upon her face that was half serious and half laughing. Then he cast his eyes upon Paul's album, but at that moment Paul was scratching over with his pencil the sketch which he had begun.
"Never," said he, discouraged, "never shall I be able to catch her likeness."
"That is not astonishing," replied Monsieur Roger. "I was struck at once with the change in her face. Miette in posing does not resemble herself any longer."
"That is true, sir; but why is it?"