n remarked.

"I'm not going, my boy," the little man answered in crisp tones, with
the hint of a side look at Ewing and Mrs. Laithe. "Run on like a good
chap and make my excuses to the dear grandmother. Needn't lie, you
know. Say I chucked her theater party at the last moment because the
places are stuffy. Say that I loathe plush and those crumpy little
boxes where one sees nothing but the gas fellow in a gingham jumper
yawning in the wings. Say I'm whimsical, capricious, fickle as April
zephyrs--in all but my love for her. If you're quite honest she'll
disbelieve you and guess that I'd a reason for stopping away. Run,
like a good lad, while I quench a craving for tales of adventure from
the most charming of her sex and from our young friend here--will you
pardon my oversight--Ewing?--Ah, to be sure, from Mr. Ewing---Ewing. I
must remember that. I'm a silly ass about names."

But when his son had gone the little man appeared to forget the craving
that had prompted his stay. From his stand on the hearth rug he jauntily
usurped the talk, winging his way down the world stream of gossip from
capital to capital. Circuitous, indeed, was his approach to art; an
anecdote of studio life in Paris; a criticism of Rodin, "Whitman in
marble;" the vigor of our native art impulse, only now learning to
withdraw a slavish deference from the French schools. "And you--Mr.--Ah,
yes--Ewing, to be sure--our amiable and rotund host tells me that you
are to be a warrior in this fray of brush and chisel. Bravo! You shall
show me work."

Ewing had listened to his recondite discourse chiefly with a morbid
expectancy of that recurrent break in the voice, straining until it came
and relaxing until it quavered back to the hazardous masculine level.
Finding himself thus noticed he stammered, "Oh, I--I've done some work
in black and white. I hope--Mrs. Laithe has encouraged me."

"A charming modesty, yours; by no means the besetting sin of your craft,
but is Mrs. Laithe an ideal promoter of genius? I fancy you'll need a
sterner guide, one to be harsh as well as kind. Women can't be that,
least of all the charming specimen who has honored you with her
patronage. I shall be proud to supplement her deficiencies as
critic--her glorious, her fascinating deficiencies. Women, audacious
souls, are recklessly kind. They incur perils to chill the blood of
brave enough men, meaning monstrously well all the time"--his narrowed
eyes sought to read the face of