"Debtor, you mean."

"I mean what I say--a creditor."

He lifted the lamp. The shadows shifted and ran along the walls like
huge spiders, the crossed swords flashed, the Venus of Milo threw us a
lofty glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pensive and sank back into shadow.
At the door I took the draped lay figure in my arms. "Excuse me," I said
as I moved it--and we left the studio for Madame Lampron's little
sitting-room.

She was seated near a small round table, knitting socks, her feet on a
hot-water bottle. Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed upon us.
She thrust her needles under the black lace cap she always wore, and drew
them out again almost immediately.

"It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouillard," said she, "to drag him
from his work."

"Saint Sylvester's day, too. It is fearful! Love for his art has
changed your son's nature, Madame Lampron."

She gave him a tender look, as on entering the room he bent over the fire
and shook out his half-smoked pipe against the bars, a thing he never
failed to do the moment he entered his mother's room.

"Dear child!" said she.

Then turning to me: