bench yonder, and I said, 'Here, go ahead; you model her, too.'
Then--then--he--he said----" Le Brux showed signs of choking. He
controlled himself, and continued--"he said, 'I can't model anything,
_Maître_, unless I feel it first'"

"Létonne, I give you my word of honor that I kept my face. I not only
kept my face, but I said to Cellette--she hadn't so much as looked up
from her book--I said to her, 'Cellette, this young sculptor would like
to model you, but he says he must feel you first.' Cellette looked
around at that. You know those gamine eyes of hers that are always sure
they'll never see anything new in the world? But you don't. In years
Cellette is very young--long after your time. Well, she turned those
eyes around, looked the boy over, and said" 'Let the babe feel.' Then
she went back to her book.

"I waved the boy to her, gravely, with a working of my fingers that was
as plain as French. It said, 'The lady says you may feel.' The boy steps
forward, and I pretend to go on with my work."

Le Brux stopped. "Excuse me, my friend," he said nervously. "Will you
kindly send for another pail of water?"

Leighton glanced into the pail.

"There's enough left," he said impatiently. "Go on."

"Ah, yes," sighed Le Brux, "go on. Just like that, go on. Well, your boy
went on. He felt her head, her arms, her shoulders; you could see his
fingers seeking things out. Cellette is a model born--and trained. She
stood it wonderfully until he came to the muscles of her back. You know