y poor excuse," she retorted.

"The best in the world. As a successful commercial artist, what possible
interest would you have taken in me? You took me for a struggling young
painter--that was the Bonnie Lassie's fault, for I never lied to you
about it--and after we'd started on that track I didn't--well, I didn't
have the courage to risk losing you by quitting the masquerade."

"How you must have laughed at me all the time!"

He flushed to his angry eyes. "Do you think that is fair?" he retorted.
"Or kind? Or true?"

"I--I don't know," she faltered. "You let me offer you money. And you've
probably got as much as I have."

"I won't have from now on, then. I'm going to paint. I thought, when you
told me you were going away, that I couldn't look at a canvas again. But
now I know I was wrong. I've got to paint. You'll have left me that,
at least."

"Mr. Merrill thinks you're ruining your career. And if you do, it'll be
my fault. I'll never, never, never," said the patroness of Art
desolately, "try to do any one good again!"

She turned toward the door.

"At least," said Julien in a voice which threatened to get out of
control, "you'll know that it wasn't all masquerade. You'll know why
I'll always keep the picture, even if I never paint another."

She stole a look at him over her shoulder and, with a thrill, saw the
passion in his eyes and the pride that withheld him from speaking.

"Suppose," she said, "I asked you to give it up."

"You wouldn't," he retorted quickly.

"No, I wouldn't. But--but--" Her glance, wandering away from him, fell
on the joyous line of Beranger bold above the door.

"'How good is life in an attic at twenty,'" she murmured. Then, turning
to him, she held out her hands.

"I could find it good," she said with a soft little falter in her voice,
"even at twenty-two."

Everything passes in review before my bench, sooner or later. The two,
going by with transfigured faces, stopped.

"Let's tell Dominie," said Julien.

I waved a jaunty hand. "I know already," said I, "even if it hadn't been
announced to a waiting world."

"Wh-wh-why," stammered Bobbie with a blush worth a man's waiting a
lifetime to see, "it--it only just happened."

"Bless your dear, innocent hearts, both of you! It's been happening for
weeks. Come with me."

I lead them to the sidewalk fronting Thornsen's Elite Restaurant. There
stood Peter Quick Banta, admiring his latest masterpiece of imaginative
symbolism.