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 trying to maintain a rallying tone, 'if you won't be the kind of Goya I want you to be, you'll have to be another kind. Interesting, too; very; but not nearly so pleasing from your point of view, I'm sure. You are delightful in this mood, perfectly delightful; to me. But you won't be delighted with your portrait when you see what I shall have to make of you.'

'Make of me what you will, Monsieur. I am at your service. The sinner, by all means, after the saint.—I do not care for saints. Des gens forts louches; that is what I suspect them of being.—Shall we go on with our work?—Marthe!' called the old lady.

'But it's a jocund sinner I want; not a tragic one,' said Graham, and he smiled at her. 'Come, come;—we are friends, as you say. You are not going to be a menacing sky to me;—not a Cassandra; but my merry Sphinx of the hillside.'

A dim smile passed across her features at that. 'Ah, the poor old Sphinx! She was never merry.'

'She was. She is. And sphinxes are more to my taste than saints. You know that.'

'Do I know it? What do you really mean, you ambiguous young man?'

'Just as much as you do.'

'It is the Sphinx who should speak in riddles; not you.'

'The Sphinx should not ask questions, then. Come; shall we really get to work?'

'By all means.—Marthe!—She does not come.' But as she spoke Mademoiselle Ludérac entered.