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For the moment Bobbie Holland’s eyes were dreamy and her tongue unguarded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him,” said she with a gesture as of one who despairingly gives over an insoluble problem.

“Umph!” said the Bonnie Lassie.

And continued sculpting.

III

As Julien had prophesied, it was only a question of time when he would be surprised by his patroness in his true garb and estate. The event occurred as he was stepping from his touring-car to get his golf-clubs from the hallway of his Gramercy Park apartment at the very moment when Bobbie Holland emerged from the house next door. Both her hands flew involuntarily to her cheeks, as she took in and wholly misinterpreted his costume, which is not to be wondered at when one considers the similarity of a golfing outfit to a chauffeur’s livery.

“Oh!” she cried out, as if something had hurt her.

Julien, for once startled out of his accustomed poise, uncovered and looked at her apprehensively.

Her voice quivered a little as she asked, very low, “Do you have to do that?”

“Why–er–no,” began the puzzled Julien, who failed for the moment to perceive what of tragic portent inhered in a prospective afternoon of golf. Her next words enlightened him.

“I should think you might have let me help before taking a–servant’s position.”

“It’s an honest occupation,” he averred.

“Do you do this–regularly?” she pursued with an effort.

“Off and on. There’s good money in it.”

“Oh!” she mourned again. Then: “You’re doing this so that you can afford to buy paints and canvas and–and things to paint me,” she accused. “It isn’t fair!”

“I’d do worse than this for that,” he declared valiantly.

Less than a fortnight later she caught him doing worse. She had ceased to speak to him of his chauffeurdom because it seemed to cause him painful embarrassment. (It did, and should have!) There had been a big theater party, important enough to get itself detailed in the valuable columns which the papers devote to such matters, and afterward supper at the most expensive uptown restaurant, Miss Roberta Holland being one of the listed guests. As she took her place at the table, she caught a glimpse of an unmistakable figure disappearing through the waiter’s exit. And Julien Tenney, who had risen from his little supper party of four (stag) hastily but just too late, on catching sight of her, saw that he was recognized. Flight, instant and permanent, had been his original intent. Now it would not do. Bolder measures must be devised. He appealed to the head-waiter to help him carry out a joke, and that functionary, developing a sense of humor under the stimulus of a twenty-dollar bill, procured him on the spot an ill-fitting coat and a black string tie, and gave him certain simple directions. When the patroness of Art next observed the object of her patronage, he was performing the humble but useful duties of an omnibus.

Miss Holland suddenly lost a perfectly good and hitherto reliable appetite.

Nor was she the only member of the supper party to develop symptoms of shock. The gilded and stalwart youth on her left, following her glance, stared at the amateur servitor with protruding eyes, ceased to eat or drink, and fell into a state of semi-coma, muttering at intervals an expressive monosyllable.

“Why not swear out loud, Caspar?” asked Bobbie presently. “It’ll do you less harm.”

“D’you see that chap over yonder? The big, fine-looking one fixing the forks?”

“Yes,” said Bobbie faintly.

“Well, that’s–No, by thunder, it can’t be!–Yes, by the red-hot hinges, it is!”

“Do you think you know him?”

“Know him! I know him? He bunked in with me for two weeks at Grandpre. He was captain of a machine-gun outfit sent down to help us clean out that little wasp’s nest. His name’s Tenney, and if ever there was a hellion in a fight! And see–what he’s come to! My God!”

“Well, don’t cry about it,” advised the girl, serenely, though it was hard for her to keep her voice steady. “There’s nothing to do about it, is there?”