through the open door of the
studio, checked her on the landing below as she mounted.

"And you're actually going to let thirty-five thousand a year slip
through your fingers, just to pursue a fad?"

To which Julien's equable accents replied:

"That's it, Merrill. I'm going to paint."

The unseen Merrill left a blessing (of a sort) behind, slammed the door
upon it, and materialized to the vision of the girl on the landing as an
energetic and spruce-looking man of forty-odd, with a harassed
expression. At need, Miss Holland could summon considerable decisiveness
to her aid.

"Would you think me inexcusably rude," she said softly, "if I asked who
you are?"

The descending man snatched off his hat, stared, seemed on the point of
whistling, then, recovering himself, said courteously: "I'm George
Merrill, advertising manager for the Criterion Clothing Company."

"And Mr. Tenney has been doing drawings for you?"

"He has. For several years."

"So that," said the girl, half to herself, "is his pot-boiling."

"Not a very complimentary term," commented Mr. Merrill, "for the best
black-and-white work being done in New York to-day. Between my concern
and two others he makes a railroad president's income out of it."

"Yes, I overheard what you said to him. Thank you so much."

"In return, may I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Will you not, for his own good, dissuade Mr. Tenney from throwing away
his career?"

"Why should you suppose me to have any influence with Mr. Tenney?"

Mr. Merrill's face was grave, as befitted the issue, but a twinkle
appeared at the corner of his glasses. "I've seen the portrait," he
replied, and with a bow, went on his way.

Julien opened the door to her knock. She stepped inside, facing him with
bright, inscrutable eyes.

"Why have you been fooling me about your circumstances?" she demanded.

"D---n Merrill!" said Julien with fervor.

"It's true that your 'pot-boiling' brings you a big income?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you take employment as a chauffeur?"

"I don't. That car belongs to me."

"And your being a waiter? I don't suppose the Taverne Splendide belongs
to you?"

"An impromptu bit of acting," confessed the abashed Julien.

"And this attic? Was that hired for the same comedy?"

"No. This is mine, really."

"I don't understand. Why have you done it all?"

"If you want to know the truth," he said defiantly, "so that I could
keep on seeing you."

"That's a ver