Then I gave it to him straight, and he said I was a vile-minded
fool and marched off." "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--"

"Yes, what's up?" "Oh, nothing. He's a brick." "Yes," said Elliott, without enthusiasm. "Don't you think so?" demanded Clifford. "Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions
are dispelled." "More shame to those who dispel 'em!" "Yes,--wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of
course--"

Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar. "I was just going to say," he observed, "that I have asked him not to come
without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have
intended--"

"Ah!" cried Elliott indignantly, "I suppose you put it to him in that
way." "Not exactly," grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, "I don't want
anything to occur here to bother him. He's a brick, and it's a pity we
can't be more like him." "I am," observed Elliott complacently, "only living with you--"

"Listen!" cried the other. "I have managed to put my foot in it in great
style. Do you know what I've done? Well--the first time I met him in the
street,--or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to
Valentine!" "Did he object?" "Believe me," said Clifford, solemnly, "this rustic Hastings has no more
idea that Valentine is--is--in fact is Valentine, than he has that he
himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals
are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that
blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my
eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He's a healthy, clean-minded young
fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that
saloons are way-stations to hell--and as for women--"

"Well?" demanded Elliott

"Well," said Clifford, "his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a
painted Jezabel." "Probably," replied the other. "He's a trump!" said Clifford, "and if he swears the world is as good and
pure as his own heart, I'll swear he's right." Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his
sketch saying, "He will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E."

"He's a lesson to me," said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed
note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table
before him. He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from "Miss Helyett," and sat
down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was written
and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two
or three times, whistling. "Going out?" inquired the other, without turning.