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“Did you assist him with your shoe?” inquired Bowles, languidly interested.

“Well, no.”

“He called you a vile-minded fool.”

“He was correct,” said Clifford from his easel in front.

“What–what do you mean?” demanded Laffat, turning red.

“That,” replied Clifford.

“Who spoke to you? Is this your business?” sneered Bowles, but nearly lost his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s my business.”

No one spoke for some time.

Then Clifford sang out, “I say, Hastings!”

And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the astonished Laffat.

“This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that any time you feel inclined to kick him, why, I will hold the other creature.”

Hastings, embarrassed, said, “Why no, I don’t agree with his ideas, nothing more.”

Clifford said “Naturally,” and slipping his arm through Hastings’, strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the studio were given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle of the old, respected and feared, the truly great.

The rest finished, the model resumed his place, and work went on in a chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art student utters when studying the beautiful.

Five o’clock struck,–the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on top of a Montrouge tram, and shortly afterward was joined by Clifford.

They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.

“I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “I like the walk through the Luxembourg.”

“By the way,” said Hastings, “how can I call on you when I don’t know where you live?”

“Why, I live opposite you.”

“What–the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the blackbirds–“

“Exactly,” said Clifford. “I’m with my friend Elliott.”

Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.

Clifford continued, “Perhaps you had better let me know when you think of coming so,–so that I will be sure to–to be there,” he ended rather lamely.

“I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said Hastings, smiling. “You know–my ideas are rather straitlaced,–I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality,–“I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because–because, well, they are like yourself, old chap.”

After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine–“

“Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling; “you must not tell me a word of her!”

“Why–“

“No–not a word!” he said gaily. “I insist,–promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”

“I promise,” said Clifford, amazed.

“She is a charming girl,–we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission.”

“Oh,” murmured Clifford.

“Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.

Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.

He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder–I wonder,–but of course he doesn’t!”

He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.

FOXHALL CLIFFORD

RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT

“Why the devil doesn’t he want me to speak of her?”

He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.

Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.

“Hello,” he said without looking around.

Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings,–you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about–the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire–“