re on Friday evenings until the close of the season.
Mr. Gregory is no more my patron, only: he is now my friend, and his
friendship is firm and true. I shall be honest in saying that to me
those Friday evenings were very beautiful. It was so great a change from
the hungry and lonely nights in my attic, to find myself back again with
ladies and gentlemen, myself well dressed and at home, and no longer
hungry. There I was admired and _feted_, and all people made much of me.
I played and sang, and the people talked of my pictures, and everywhere
I was asked out, until I could have spent my every hour in those
calm social dissipations which make up so large a share of life in all
refined societies. For my friend Gregory is a man of refinement--within
himself--and his friends are all artistic and literary.. But why should
I talk about him? Everybody knows him. Gregory the millionaire; Gregory
the connoisseur in wines, in pictures, in old violins, in pottery; the
Connoisseur in humanity at whose gatherings the wisest and the most
charming meet each other. Gregory the ship-builder, iron-master,
coal-owner; architect of himself--a splendid edifice. That such a man
should have bought my pictures was of itself a fortune to me. I am on
my way to get riches, and my balance at-the bank is already respectable.
Why, then, should I be at battle with Madame Circumstance? You shall
see.

One day at the beginning of this year he called to see me. I was hard at
work making the best of the few hours of light. He sat and watched for a
full hour, talking very little. At last he said--

'I can trust you, Calvotti. I want you to do me a service.'

'I am very heartily glad to hear it,' I answered.

'You won't understand what I want you to do unless I tell you the whole
story,' he said, after a pause. Then he remained silent for some time.

'Put down your brushes and listen,' he went on.

I obeyed him. He lit a cigar, poured out a glass of claret, crossed
his legs, and talked easily, though at times I could see that he felt
strongly.

'I have had a good many friendly acquaintances in my life, and one
friend: he died five years ago. I was abroad at the time, in Russia,
laying down a railway. My friend, whom everybody supposed to be fairly
well-to-do, died poor. There was one lump sum of money in my hands,
placed there by him for investment, and that was almost all he had. By
some terrible mischance, the acknowledgment I had given for this