when hawker went again to the house of the great window he looked first at the colossal chandelier, and, perceiving that it had not moved, he smiled in a certain friendly and familiar way.

"it must be a fine thing," said the girl dreamily. "i always feel envious of that sort of life."

"what sort of life?"

"why—i don't know exactly; but there must be a great deal of freedom about it. i went to a studio tea once, and——"

"a studio tea! merciful heavens—— go on."

"yes, a studio tea. don't you like them? to be sure, we didn't know whether the man could paint very well, and i suppose you think it is an imposition for anyone who is not a great painter to give a tea."

"go on."

"well, he had the dearest little japanese servants, and some of the cups came from algiers, and some from turkey, and some from—— what's the matter?"

"go on. i'm not interrupting you."

"well, that's all; excepting that everything was charming in colour, and i thought what a lazy, beautiful life the man must lead, lounging in such a studio, smoking monogrammed cigarettes, and remarking how badly all the other men painted."

"very fascinating. but——"

"oh! you are going to ask if he could draw. i'm sure i don't know, but the tea that he gave was charming."

"i was on the verge of telling you something about artist life, but if you have seen a lot of draperies and drunk from a cup of algiers, you know all about it."

"you, then, were going to make it something very terrible, and tell how young painters struggled, and all that."

"no, not exactly. but listen: i suppose there is an aristocracy who, whether they paint well or paint ill, certainly do give charming teas, as you say, and all other kinds of charming affairs too; but when i hear people talk as if that was the whole life, it makes my hair rise, you know, because i am sure that as they get to know me better and better they will see how i fall short of that kind of an existence, and i shall probably take a great tumble in their estimation. they might even conclude that i can not paint, which would be very unfair, because i can paint, you know."

"well, proceed to arrange my point of view, so that you sha'n't tumble in my estimation when i discover that you don't lounge in a studio, smoke monogrammed cigarettes, and remark how badly the other men paint."

"that's it. that's precisely what i wish to do."

"begin."

"well, in the first place——"

"in the first place—what?"

"well, i started to study when i was very poor, you understand. look here! i'm telling you these things because i want you to know, somehow. it isn't that i'm not ashamed of it. well, i began very poor, and i—as a matter of fact—i—well, i earned myself over half the money for my studying, and the other half i bullied and badgered and beat out of my poor old dad. i worked pretty hard in paris, and i returned here expecting to become a great painter at once. i didn't, though. in fact, i had my worst moments then. it lasted for some years. of course, the faith and endurance of my father were by this time worn to a shadow—this time, when i needed him the most. however, things got a little better and a little better, until i found that by working quite hard i could make what was to me a fair income. that's where i am now, too."

"why are you so ashamed of this story?"

"the poverty."

"poverty isn't anything to be ashamed of."

"great heavens! have you the temerity to get off that old nonsensical remark? poverty is everything to be ashamed of. did you ever see a person not ashamed of his poverty? certainly not. of course, when a man gets very rich he will brag so loudly of the poverty of his youth that one would never suppose that he was once ashamed of it. but he was."

"well, anyhow, you shouldn't be ashamed of the story you have just told me."

"why not? do you refuse to allow me the great right of being like other men?"

"i think it was—brave, you know."

"brave? nonsense! those things are not brave. impression to that effect created by the men who have been through the mill for the greater glory of the men who have been through the mill."

"i don't like to hear you talk that way. it sounds wicked, you know."

"well, it certainly wasn't heroic. i can remember distinctly that there was not one heroic moment."

"no, but it was—it was——"

"it was what?"

"well, somehow i like it, you know."