to-day for an artist
is Paris. In no other city can he live his own life in frank fulness,
and find patrons who see the subtlest meaning of a line."

Bertha was tired of all this--mentally weary and confused; and she felt
very grateful to Mrs. Moss, who came to the rescue the moment Humiston
paused.

"There, Mrs. Haney, that is the end of Professor Jerry Spoopendyke's
lecture on the undesirability of America as a place of residence--_for
him_. Of course, he don't mind selling his pictures just to enlighten
our night of ignorance, but as for going to Sunday-school or keeping the
decalogue, that's our job."

Humiston had the grace to smile. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Haney, I have
been a fool. But that monkey over there--Joe Moss--provoked me with his
accursed heresies about the democracy of art. Art has no democracy, and
democracy will never have an art--"

"There, there!" warned Moss, "you said all that before."

The painter wrenched himself away and turned to Bertha. "You _are_
coming to New York, Mrs. Haney?"

"I don't know," she said. "We may."

"If you do, don't fail to let me know. I would like to see you."

"All right," said Bertha, "I'll send you a line." And her frank smile
made him sorry to say good-bye even for the day.

As Mart was going up the elevator he sighed and said: "It takes all
kinds of people to make up a world--Mr. Hummockstone is wan of the
t'others. He has a grouch agin the universe. Sure but he's been housin'
a gnawin' serpent. How 'twill all end I dunno."

When alone in her room, Bertha's mind again reverted to Ben Fordyce. As
she compared him with Humiston, he seemed handsomer and more boyishly
frank than ever. What did Joe Moss mean by calling Mr. Humiston "blase."
She had seen that word in novels and it always meant something wicked.
How could this weary, sick man be wicked? She pitied him and wished to
help him. "Why should he take so much interest in me? He don't have to.
Of course the Mosses are nice to me on Congdon's account, but why does
this great artist want me to come to his studio in New York? He talks
poor, so maybe he wants me to buy some of his pictures." That her money
was a lure for wasps she did not yet realize. That the waiters and
clerks buzzed round her because she was rich, she knew; but that these
men, who talked of beauty and the higher life, could flatter her with
attentions with a base motive was incredible.

She was shrewd as her Yankee forbears, but she