d that it had brought him--when this event
occurred, Madame Carthame's kindly feelings toward her second-floor
lodger were resolved into an abiding faith and high esteem. It was upon
this auspicious day that the conviction took firm root in her mind that
the Count Siccatif de Courtray was the heaven-sent husband for her
daughter Rose.

That Rose approved this ambitious matrimonial project of her mother's
was a matter open to doubt; at least her conduct was such that two
diametrically opposite views were entertained in regard to her
intentions. On the one hand, Madame Carthame and the Count Siccatif de
Courtray believed that she had made up her mind to live in her mother's
own second-story front and be a countess. On the other hand, Jaune
d'Antimoine, whose wish, perhaps, was father to his thought, believed
that she would not do anything of the sort. Jaune gladly would have
believed, also, that she cherished matrimonial intentions in quite a
different, namely, an artistic, direction; but he was a modest young
fellow, and suffered his hopes to be greatly diluted by his fears. And,
in truth, the conduct of Rose was so perplexing, at times so
atrociously exasperating, that a person much more deeply versed in
women's ways than this young painter was, very well might have been
puzzled hopelessly; for if ever a born flirt came out of France, that
flirt was Rose Carthame.

Of one thing, however, Jaune was convinced: that unless something of a
positive nature was done, and done speedily, for the improvement of his
outward man, his chance of success was gone forever. Already, Madame
Carthame eyed his seedy garments askance; already, for Rose had
admitted the truth of his suspicions in this dismal direction, Madame
Carthame had instituted most unfavorable comparisons between his own
chronic shabbiness and the no less chronic splendor of the Count
Siccatif de Courtray. Therefore, it came to pass--out of his abstract
need for presentable habiliments, out of his desire to appear in
creditable form at Vandyke Brown's wedding, and, more than all else,
out of his love for Rose--that Jaune d'Antimoine registered a mighty
oath before high heaven that within a month's time a new suit of
clothes should be his!

Yet the chances are that he would have gone down Christopher Street to
the North River, and still further down, even into a watery grave--as
he very frequently thought of doing during this melancholy period of
his existence--had