ere the steps of his declension? No one exactly knew. Here he was
at least, and had been, any time these past ten years, a sort of dismal
parasite upon the foreigner in Paris.

It would be hazardous to specify his exact industry. Coarsely followed,
it would have merited a name grown somewhat unfamiliar to our ears.
Followed as he followed it, with a skilful reticence, in a kind of
social chiaroscuro, it was still possible for the polite to call him a
professional painter. His lair was in the Grand Hotel and the gaudiest
cafes. There he might be seen jotting off a sketch with an air of some
inspiration; and he was always affable, and one of the easiest of men to
fall in talk withal. A conversation usually ripened into a peculiar sort
of intimacy, and it was extraordinary how many little services Van Tromp
contrived to render in the course of six-and-thirty hours. He occupied
a position between a friend and a courier, which made him worse than
embarrassing to repay. But those whom he obliged could always buy one of
his villainous little pictures, or, where the favours had been prolonged
and more than usually delicate, might order and pay for a large canvas,
with perfect certainty that they would hear no more of the transaction.

Among resident artists he enjoyed the celebrity of a non-professional
sort. He had spent more money--no less than three individual fortunes,
it was whispered--than any of his associates could ever hope to gain.
Apart from his colonial career, he had been to Greece in a brigantine
with four brass carronades; he had travelled Europe in a chaise and
four, drawing bridle at the palace-doors of German princes; queens of
song and dance had followed him like sheep, and paid his tailor's bills.
And to behold him now, seeking small loans with plaintive condescension,
sponging for breakfast on an art-student of nineteen, a fallen Don Juan
who had neglected to die at the propitious hour, had a colour of romance
for young imaginations. His name and his bright past, seen through the
prism of whispered gossip, had gained him the nickname of "The Admiral."

Dick found him one day at the receipt of custom, rapidly painting a pair
of hens and a cock in a little water-colour sketching-box, and now and
then glancing at the ceiling like a man who should seek inspiration from
the muse. Dick thought it remarkable that a painter should choose to
work over an absinthe in a public cafe, and looked the man over. The
aged