'What sort of thing—what does she mean?' the Colonel asked.
'Oh, my painting you, when I might be painting her.'
'And have you ever painted her?'
'Never in the world; I have never seen her. She is quite mistaken.'
The Colonel was silent a moment; then he remarked, 'She was very pretty—ten years ago.'
'I daresay, but she's quite ruined. For me the least drop too much spoils them; I shouldn't care for her at all.'
'My dear fellow, she's not a model,' said the Colonel, laughing.
'To-day, no doubt, she's not worthy of the name; but she has been one.'
'Jamais de la vie! That's all a pretext.'
'A pretext?' Lyon pricked up his ears—he began to wonder what was coming now.
'She didn't want you—she wanted me.'
'I noticed she paid you some attention. What does she want of you?'
'Oh, to do me an ill turn. She hates me—lots of women do. She's watching me—she follows me.'
Lyon leaned back in his chair—he didn't believe a word of this. He was all the more delighted with it and with the Colonel's bright, candid manner. The story had bloomed, fragrant, on the spot. 'My dear Colonel!' he murmured, with friendly interest and commiseration.
'I was annoyed when she came in—but I wasn't startled,' his sitter continued.
'You concealed it very well, if you were.'
'Ah, when one has been through what I have!
