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man of some fifty years, he approached the platform and twitched Mab’s draperies into folds more reminiscent of the antique. “It is inappropriate. Did Venus scowl? Did Aphrodite? Most certainly not!”
    Mab was not intimidated by Maurice, who had been a friend of her papa’s. She was grateful to him for the modeling work he put in her way, and consequently kept quiet her opinion that his motive in opening a teaching studio was less to pass on the principles of his art than to train the assistants he required to carry out his own great decorative works.
    Mab was not so grateful, now, as to cease to frown, despite his gentle scolding. She hissed, “What’s he doing here?”
    Maurice glanced over his shoulder. “Why should the Duc not come to the studio? He has an interest, you understand. An interest in the arts.” He leaned closer. “Edouard would be a generous benefactor. You would no longer need to eke out a slender existence by posing for students in the near nude.” He clapped his hands and raised his voice. “You are indefatigable, ma petite, but enough. We must not exhaust you, so you will pose another day. Allons, hop! ”
    Of course Mab would return another day; she wanted Maurice’s francs. However, there was no arguing with that tone of voice. Quickly, she ducked behind the dressing screen. Mab might pose in the altogether in front of Maurice’s students and not feel a pang of embarrassment; they saw her not as a person but an object to be portrayed. In the presence of the Duc de Gascoigne, however, even in her antique draperies, she felt naked as a babe newborn.
    The Duc was not in evidence when Mab emerged from behind the dressing-screen. Maurice, engrossed in passionate conversation with a student, whipped off his glove to correct a drawing with his thumbnail, so emphatically that he cut right through the paper. Mab slipped out of the studio.
    Luck was not with Mab that day. The Duc waited outside the door. “Ma’mselle Foliot,” he said with an elegant bow. “I think it is time we talked together, you and I.”
    Mab studied the Duc. Slate-gray coat with low-set square tails; yellowish-brown vest of one of the new matelassé fabrics; blue-gray breeches, highly polished boots. Very elegant he was, she supposed. Certainly he was handsome, with his aristocratic features, his fair hair, his world-weary gray eyes. Mab had little appreciation for elegancies of appearances, as apparent in her simple, serviceable dark gown, the hair that was drawn back in an untidy coil. “I don’t know what we would have to talk about, m’sieur.”
    The Duc raised his brows. “You do not like me much, do you, my little Jacobin? You see in me a throwback to the ancien noblesse, and think it a great pity that you cannot see me meet my just end on Madame Guillotine.”
    There was more truth in this than Mab cared to admit. “I have to go home now.”
    “I shall escort you.” Mab scowled, and the Duc raised his hand. “No, don’t argue! It will do you no good. Maurice has told me where you live. I know you will not wish me to discommode myself—see how well you know me—but I assure you I make no great sacrifice, since I know it is not far.”
    Mab refused to be disarmed. “ You talk a great deal of nonsense. Come along then, if you must. But we’ll walk if you don’t mind.” She was not such a ninny as to climb into the Duc’s fine carriage. Let his high-and-mightiness make what he would of the dirty streets.
    The Duc appeared not the least bit discomposed. He dismissed his coachman and turned back to Mab. “It will be as you wish. I beg you will not continue to scowl at me in that dreadful fashion. Consider Maurice’s students and their dilemma if your face were to freeze.”
    Made aware of her horrid grimace, Mab smoothed her brow. “Bah!” she said, lest the Duc erroneously assume she cared a fig what he thought. “Come along then, if you must.” She flung her old India shawl around her shoulders