y back garden of a
frail stuffy little villa where nothing was ever in its right place and
nobody every called,--to endure and to watch Maisie moving to and fro
with the teacups. He abhorred tea, but, since it gave him a little
longer time in her presence, he drank it devoutly, and the red-haired
girl sat in an untidy heap and eyed him without speaking. She was always
watching him.

Once, and only once, when she had left the studio, Maisie showed him
an album that held a few poor cuttings from provincial papers,--the
briefest of hurried notes on some of her pictures sent to outlying
exhibitions. Dick stooped and kissed the paint-smudged thumb on the open
page. 'Oh, my love, my love,' he muttered, 'do you value these things?
Chuck 'em into the waste-paper basket!'

'Not till I get something better,' said Maisie, shutting the book.

Then Dick, moved by no respect for his public and a very deep regard for
the maiden, did deliberately propose, in order to secure more of these
coveted cuttings, that he should paint a picture which Maisie should
sign.

'That's childish,' said Maisie, 'and I didn't think it of you. It must
be my work. Mine,--mine,--mine!'

'Go and design decorative medallions for rich brewers' houses. You are
thoroughly good at that.' Dick was sick and savage.

'Better things than medallions, Dick,' was the answer, in tones that
recalled a gray-eyed atom's fearless speech to Mrs. Jennett. Dick would
have abased himself utterly, but that other girl trailed in.

Next Sunday he laid at Maisie's feet small gifts of pencils that could
almost draw of themselves and colours in whose permanence he believed,
and he was ostentatiously attentive to the work in hand. It demanded,
among other things, an exposition of the faith that was in him.

Torpenhow's hair would have stood on end had he heard the fluency with
which Dick preached his own gospel of Art.

A month before, Dick would have been equally astonished; but it was
Maisie's will and pleasure, and he dragged his words together to make
plain to her comprehension all that had been hidden to himself of the
whys and wherefores of work. There is not the least difficulty in doing
a thing if you only know how to do it; the trouble is to explain your
method.

'I could put this right if I had a brush in my hand,' said Dick,
despairingly, over the modelling of a chin that Maisie complained would
not 'look flesh,'--it was the same chin that she had scraped out wit