No one came through the
door; they left her in silence, enclosed in the cell of the room and of
her dreams, and she was content to stand without movement, without act
or thought. The near chair, the wall hard by, the golden room which she
had just left so suddenly were alike to her; her eyes and her
imagination were tuned to the same level, and there was no distinction
between what was on her horizon and beyond it. Across the face of the
artist the scenes in the room behind her passed in unarrested
procession, and the voice of an illusory lover in her ear startled her
by its clearness. The music wandered about the room like visible
movement, and the artist, God bless him, never opened his mouth between
his shower of tiny glances.
"Finished, mademoiselle!" and he held the drawing towards her as he
leant back with a sigh. He had made too many drawings that evening, and
any talent he had hung in his mind as wearily as a flag in an airless
room. With an effort she broke her position and moved towards him,
taking up the drawing in her hand with a forced interest. "Yes, thank
you, thank you," she said, and he took it back and laid it with the pile
he had made. "You don't like it? But I'm so tired. Look at these others
I did earlier in the evening...."
But while she bent over them the door burst open and Dormans came in,
followed by Duval and Dennis.
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