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‘I’m afraid I can’t hold out hopes, I’m so busy with portraits,’ Lyon continued.

‘Yes; I see you are. I wish I was in the gentleman’s place.’

‘I’m afraid in that case it wouldn’t look like me,’ said the Colonel, laughing.

‘Oh, of course it couldn’t compare–it wouldn’t be so ‘andsome! But I do hate them portraits!’ Miss Geraldine declared. ‘It’s so much bread out of our mouths.’

‘Well, there are many who can’t paint them,’ Lyon suggested, comfortingly.

‘Oh, I’ve sat to the very first–and only to the first! There’s many that couldn’t do anything without me.’

‘I’m glad you’re in such demand.’ Lyon was beginning to be bored and he added that he wouldn’t detain her–he would send for her in case of need.

‘Very well; remember it’s the Mews–more’s the pity! You don’t sit so well as us!’ Miss Geraldine pursued, looking at the Colonel. ‘If you should require me, sir—-‘

‘You put him out; you embarrass him,’ said Lyon.

‘Embarrass him, oh gracious!’ the visitor cried, with a laugh which diffused a fragrance. ‘Perhaps you send postcards, eh?’ she went on to the Colonel; and then she retreated with a wavering step. She passed out into the garden as she had come.

‘How very dreadful–she’s drunk!’ said Lyon. He was painting hard, but he looked up, checking himself: Miss Geraldine, in the open doorway, had thrust back her head.

‘Yes, I do hate it–that sort of thing!’ she cried with an explosion of mirth which confirmed Lyon’s declaration. And then she disappeared.

‘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! To-day however I confess I was half prepared. I have seen her hanging about–she knows my movements. She was near my house this morning–she must have followed me.’

‘But who is she then–with such a toupet?‘

‘Yes, she has that,’ said the Colonel; ‘but as you observe she was primed. Still, there was a cheek, as they say, in her coming in. Oh, she’s a bad one! She isn’t a model and she never was; no doubt she has known some of those women and picked up their form. She had hold of a friend of mine ten years ago–a stupid young gander who might have been left to be plucked but whom I was obliged to take an interest in for family reasons. It’s a long story–I had really forgotten all about it. She’s thirty-seven if she’s a day. I cut in and made him get rid of her–I sent her about her business. She knew it was me she had to thank. She has never forgiven me–I think she’s off her head. Her name isn’t Geraldine at all and I doubt very much if that’s her address.’