they deepen his darkness.

Gordon seems to me like the only exception I know to the rule I have
just formulated. He has the brain of an artist, but the soul of an
actuary, and, sometimes, I wish I were not so fond of him. The way he
speaks of Frances actually revolts me. For another week or two he may,
perhaps, make use of her, forsooth! But he must not indulge such
weakness too long, for fear he may be considered as a man of one model.
He has plucked the flower of her beauty and spread it on canvas,
destined to bring forth admiration and dollars. But now, like squeezed
out paint tubes and worn out brushes she may be discarded. He has
obliged me, and made a good speculation. Next week he will be playing
golf and cultivating damsels and dowagers who may desire immortality in
paint. On the putting-green he may obtain commissions, and in the tennis
court inveigle some white-flanneled banker into leaving his facial
characteristics to posterity. I could have forgiven him, if he had shown
a little real enthusiasm in his model and deplored his inability to
employ her further. After all, she has inspired him to great
accomplishment and he is a cold-blooded opportunist, in spite of our
mutual fondness. The last word I heard from him as he saw me to the door
was a whispered one, as he jerked his head towards the studio, where we
had left the ladies.

"I'm going to do the old girl this fall," he said.

The man has put all of his art and wonderful taste into his picture of
Frances. Just as hard he will toil over the fat face of the good lady he
thus disrespectfully alluded to. It may, perhaps, pay him better. The
man's temperature, if my young friend Porter took it, would probably
turn out to be that of a fish.

My thoughts made me forget the heat, but I arrived home in a dilapidated
state of moisture and with a face thoroughly crimsoned. As soon as I
reached my room I changed my stiff shirt and collar for a softer and
lighter garment of alleged silk, purchased at a bargain sale. When I
came out, Frances's door was opened and I looked in. She was sitting in
the armchair, with the baby in her lap, and the smile she greeted me
with could do little to conceal the fact that she had been a prey to
unhappy thoughts.

"Isn't it hot?" I observed, with scant originality.

"It is dreadful," she answered, "and--and I wonder if Baby suffers from
it. Do you think he is looking pale?"

At once, I inwardly decided that he was. The idea w