last been recognized, he slowed down, entering the store with a
steady gait, a little restrained in his manner, saying, as he tried to
cram down his joy, that it was a mere sketch, you know, something that
he had knocked off out-of-doors; that Nat had liked it and had, so
he said, taken it up to have it framed. That, of course, he could not
afford ever to repeat the sale price--not for a ten by fourteen of that
quality, but that most of his rich patrons were still out of town, and
so it came in very well.

And, oh, yes, he had almost forgotten! He and Nat were going up to
Laguerre's, on the Bronx, to an old French cafe, where they often
lunched and painted; that Nat had suggested just as he left the studio
that it would be a good thing if Felix and that dear child Masie would
go with them, and that they would go Saturday, which was to-morrow, if
that would suit O'Day and Masie. And if that wouldn't suit, why then
they'd go the very first day that did, say Sunday or Monday, the sooner
the better.

To all of which Felix, reading every thought that lurked behind the
moist eyes of the tender-hearted old fraud, had replied that, if he had
the choosing, to-morrow, of all the days in the year, would be the very
day he would select, and that he and Masie would be ready any hour that
he and Mr. Ganger would be good enough to call for them.

At which the old painter took himself off in high glee.

And an altogether delightful and a very happy party it was. Sam, as
host-in-chief, sparing no expense, his first act being to pre-empt
a summer-house covered with vines, already tinged by the touches of
autumn's fingers; and his second to insist in a loud voice on chairs and
table-cloths, instead of a sandwich spread out on a bench, as had been
their custom, followed by a demand for olives and a small bottle of red
wine, to say nothing of a double brace of chops, and all with the air of
a multimillionaire ordering a cold bottle and a hot bird at Delmonico's.
And Nat, grown ten years younger--a mere boy in fact--showed Masie how
to throw little leaden weights down the throat of a small cast-iron
frog, and Felix mixed the salad and served it, Masie changing the dishes
and running back to the house for fresh ones, while Fudge, in frenzied
glee, scurried over the soft earth as if he had suddenly been seized
with St. Vitus's dance. And then, when there was not a crumb of anything
left even for the chippies, they all stretched themselves f