r of
it who has been admitted to a certain implicit equality is a difficult
and delicate matter for a girl brought up in Roberta Holland's school.
Several times after the restaurant encounter she essayed it; trying both
the indirect approach and the method of extreme frankness. Neither
answered. Julien responded to her advances by alternate moods of extreme
gloom and slyly inexplicable amusement. Bobbie gave it up, concluding
that he was in a very queer mood, anyway. She was right. He was.

The next episode of their progress took the form of a veritable
unmasking which, perversely enough, only fixed the mask tighter upon
Julien Tenney. By way of loosening up his wrist for the open season,
Peter Quick Banta had taken advantage of an amiable day to sketch out a
composite floral and faunal scheme on the flagging in front of
Thornsen's Elite Restaurant, when Miss Holland, in passing, paused to
observe and wonder. At the same moment, Julien hurrying around the
corner, all but ran her down. She nodded toward the decorator of
sidewalks.

"Isn't he the funny man that you were with the first time I saw you?"

"The very same," responded Julien with twinkling eyes.

"What is he doing?"

"He's one of the few remaining examples of the sidewalk or public-view
school of art."

"Yes, but what does he do it for?"

"His living."

"Do people give him money for it? Do you think I might give him
something?" she asked, looking uncertainly at the artist, who, on hands
and knees and with tongue protruding, was putting a green head on a red
bird, too absorbed even to notice the onlookers.

"I think he'd be tickled pink."

She took a quarter from her purse, hesitated, then slipped it into her
companion's hand.

"_You_ give it to him. I think he'd like it better."

"Oh, no; I don't think he'd like it at all. In fact, I doubt if he'd
take it from me."

"Why not?"

"Well, you see," explained Julien blandly, "we're rather intimately
connected." He raised his voice. "Hello, Dad!"

The decorator furled his tongue, lifted his head, changed his crayon,
replied, "Hello, Lad," and continued his work. "What d' you think of
_that_?" he added, after a moment, triumphantly pointing a yellow crayon
at the green-headed red-bird.

"Some parrot!" enthused Julien.

"'T ain't a parrot. It's a nightingale," retorted the artist
indignantly. "You black-and-white fellows never do understand color."

"It's a corker, anyway," said Julien. "Dad he