and badgered and beat out of my
poor old dad. I worked pretty hard in Paris, and I returned here
expecting to become a great painter at once. I didn't, though. In fact,
I had my worst moments then. It lasted for some years. Of course, the
faith and endurance of my father were by this time worn to a
shadow--this time, when I needed him the most. However, things got a
little better and a little better, until I found that by working quite
hard I could make what was to me a fair income. That's where I am now,
too."

"Why are you so ashamed of this story?"

"The poverty."

"Poverty isn't anything to be ashamed of."

"Great heavens! Have you the temerity to get off that old nonsensical
remark? Poverty is everything to be ashamed of. Did you ever see a
person not ashamed of his poverty? Certainly not. Of course, when a man
gets very rich he will brag so loudly of the poverty of his youth that
one would never suppose that he was once ashamed of it. But he was."

"Well, anyhow, you shouldn't be ashamed of the story you have just told
me."

"Why not? Do you refuse to allow me the great right of being like other
men?"

"I think it was--brave, you know."

"Brave? Nonsense! Those things are not brave. Impression to that effect
created by the men who have been through the mill for the greater glory
of the men who have been through the mill."

"I don't like to hear you talk that way. It sounds wicked, you know."

"Well, it certainly wasn't heroic. I can remember distinctly that there
was not one heroic moment."

"No, but it was--it was----"

"It was what?"

"Well, somehow I like it, you know."

CHAPTER XXX.

"There's three of them," said Grief in a hoarse whisper.

"Four, I tell you!" said Wrinkles in a low, excited tone.

"Four," breathed Pennoyer with decision.

They held fierce pantomimic argument. From the corridor came sounds of
rustling dresses and rapid feminine conversation.

Grief had kept his ear to the panel of the door. His hand was stretched
back, warning the others to silence. Presently he turned his head and
whispered, "Three."

"Four," whispered Pennoyer and Wrinkles.

"Hollie is there, too," whispered Grief. "Billie is unlocking the door.
Now they're going in. Hear them cry out, 'Oh, isn't it lovely!' Jinks!"
He began a noiseless dance about the room. "Jinks! Don't I wish I had a
big studio and a little reputation! Wouldn't I have my swell friends
come to see me, and wouldn't I ent