under my avid glance that watched him and hoped
for the worst! . . . Poor Lirat! . . And still I loved
him! . . .
The day was drawing to a close. All over Rodrigues place one heard the slamming of doors; the noise of steps upon the street was rapidly dying away, and in the shops voices were heard rising in song at the end of the day's work. Lirat had not uttered a word since resuming his work, except to fix my posture, which I did not keep just the way he wanted.
"The leg a little this way!. . . A little more now! . . . Your chest not quite so drawn in! . . . . You'll excuse me, my dear Mintie, but you pose like a pig!"
He worked now feverishly, now haltingly, mumbling in his mustache, swearing from time to time. His crayon snapped at the canvas with a sort of uneasy haste of angry nervousness.
"Ah, shucks!" he cried out, pushing away the easel with a kick. . . . I can do nothing but botchwork today! . . . . The devil take me, one might think I was competing for a prize."
Moving back his chair he examined his sketch with a frigid air and muttered:
"Whenever women come here it's the same old story. . . . When they go away the women leave you the soul of a Boulanger in the pretty claws of a Henner. . . . Henner, do you understand? . . Let's go out."
When we were at the end of the street:
"Are you coming to dine with me, Lirat?" I asked him.
"No," he replied in a dry tone, reaching out his hand.
And he walked away, stiff, formal, solemn, with the business air of a deputy who has just discussed the budget.
