ivan.

It was winter again, and though the janitor had not forgotten the fire,
the studio gave no other evidence of its master's increasing
prosperity. If Stanwell spent his money it was not upon himself.

He leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette
between his lips, while Shepson paced the dirty floor or halted
impatiently before an untouched canvas on the easel.

"I tell you vat it is, Mr. Sdanwell, I can't make you out!" he
lamented. "Last vinter you got a sdart that vould have kept most men
going for years. After making dat hit vith Mrs. Millington's picture
you could have bainted half the town. And here you are sitting on your
divan and saying you can't make up your mind to take another order.
Vell, I can only say that if you take much longer to make it up, you'll
find some other chap has cut in and got your job. Mrs. Van Orley has
been waiting since last August, and she dells me you haven't even
answered her letter."

"How could I? I didn't know if I wanted to paint her."

"My goodness! Don't you know if you vant three thousand tollars?"

Stanwell surveyed his cigarette. "No, I'm not sure I do," he said.

Shepson flung out his hands. "Ask more den--but do it quick!" he
exclaimed.

Left to himself, Stanwell stood in silent contemplation of the canvas
on which the dealer had riveted his reproachful gaze. It had been
destined to reflect the opulent image of Mrs. Alpheus Van Orley, but
some secret reluctance of Stanwell's had stayed the execution of the
task. He had painted two of Mrs. Millington's friends in the spring,
had been much praised and liberally paid for his work, and then,
declining several recent orders to be executed at Newport, had
surprised his friends by remaining quietly in town. It was not till
August that he hired a little cottage on the New Jersey coast and
invited the Arrans to visit him. They accepted the invitation, and the
three had spent together six weeks of seashore idleness, during which
Stanwell's modest rafters shook with Caspar's denunciations of his
host's venality, and the brightness of Kate's gratitude was tempered by
a tinge of reproach. But her grief over Stanwell's apostasy could not
efface the fact that he had offered her brother the means of escape
from town, and Stanwell himself was consoled by the reflection that but
for Mrs. Millington's portrait he could not have performed even this
trifling service for his friends.

When the Arrans left