The Commandant Dormans crossed the room to them.

"She must be drawn. She must go for her portrait. Spare me your partner.
Mademoiselle, we have an artist, a _poilu_, drawing some of the dresses.
Will you come with me and sit for yours?"

She went into the little room and stood for the drawing; the door shut
on her, and she and the artist faced each other. Through the door the
music came softly, and as she stood, hands resting without a breath's
stir on fold, on frill, head bent and wandering eyes, the artist with
twitching face and moving hand looked up and down, up and down, and she
sank, swaying a little upon her rooted feet, into a hypnotised
tranquillity. She did not care what the man put upon the white paper
with his flying hands; he might draw the flowers upon her skirt, but not
the tall blooming flowers within her, growing fabulously like the lilies
in a dream. Her thoughts went out to meet the waves of music floating
through the door; her rooted body held so still that she no longer felt
it, and her spirit hung unbodied in an exaltation between love which
she remembered and love which she expected. 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