'And Marthe—our dear Coco; dead!' exclaimed the old lady, as she seated herself in the bergère. 'Monsieur Graham so specially wished to paint me with Coco beside me.—Is it not a disaster?—We have an assortment of animals, here, Monsieur, as I have told you; all Marthe's pets;—a hare; a dog; a cat; two cats now, are there not, Marthe?—would not one of those do as well?'
'I'm afraid not,' said Graham, smiling, and feeling himself somewhat restored as he set his canvas in its place and laid his utensils on the table. 'I don't see you with a hare in your arms; or a cat either. Coco, in design and colour and character, was what I needed; and since he has gone I shall do you without appurtenances.—But one thing you still have that I should like; the black lace for your head;—and, may I be frank?—the rouge for your lips. We need that for the Goya almost as much as your black eyes.'
The old lady trembled with excitement and gratification.
'Marthe'—she whispered, 'could you?—'
'But most certainly,' said Mademoiselle Ludérac, and, smiling appeasingly as her eyes met the black eyes of the Goya, she left the room.
'She will get them,' whispered the old lady. 'She will give me all I need. She is my good angel.' So flustered was she, it was evident, that she hardly knew what she was saying.
Mademoiselle Ludérac returned with the lace mantilla, a box of powder, a stick of rouge, and a mirror,
