critical
look at himself, and, dropping both hands into the pockets of his
dinner jacket, walked out into the big studio, which also was his
living-room.

There was a piano there; he sat down and rattled off a rollicking air
from the most recent spring production, beginning to realise that he
was keyed up for something livelier than a solitary dinner at home.

His hands fell from the keys and he swung around on the piano stool
and looked into the dining-room rather doubtfully.

"Aristocrates!" he called.

The tall pullman butler sauntered gracefully in.

Barres gave him a telephone number to call. Aristocrates returned
presently with the information that the lady was not at home.

"All right. Try Amsterdam 6703. Ask for Miss Souval."

But Miss Souval, also, was out.

Barres possessed a red-leather covered note-book; he went to his desk
and got it; and under his direction Aristocrates called up several
numbers, reporting adversely in every case.

It was a fine evening; ladies were abroad or preparing to fulfil
engagements wisely made on such a day as this had been. And the more
numbers he called up the lonelier the young man began to feel.

Thessalie had not given him either her address or telephone number. It
would have been charming to have her dine with him. He was now
thoroughly inclined for company. He glanced at the empty dining-room
with aversion.

"All right; never mind," he said, dismissing Aristocrates, who receded
as lithely as though leading a cake-walk.

"The devil," muttered the young fellow. "I'm not going to dine here
alone. I've had too happy a day of it."

He got up restlessly and began to pace the studio. He knew he could
get some man, but he didn't want one. However, it began to look like
that or a solitary dinner.

So after a few more moments' scowling cogitation he went out and down
the stairs, with the vague idea of inviting some brother painter--any
one of the regular irregulars who inhabited Dragon Court.

Dulcie sat behind the little desk near the door, head bowed, her thin
hands clasped over the closed ledger, and in her pallid face the
expressionless dullness of a child forgotten.

"Hello, Sweetness!" he said cheerfully.

She looked up; a slight colour tinted her cheeks, and she smiled.

"What's the matter, Dulcie?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? That's a very dreary malady--nothing. You look lonely. Are
you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know whether you are lonely or n