s to
rank with himself and the other real magnificences among the _ducs
et pairs de France_ drove him to distraction. It was now let out to a
multitude of families, who began downstairs in affluence and ended
in the genteel or artistic penury of the garrets. The first floor was
occupied by a deputy and ex-minister, one of the leaders of the Centre
Gauche--in the garrets it was possible for a _rapin_ to find a bedroom
at sixteen francs a month. But it was needful that he should be
a seemly _rapin_, orderly and quietly ambitious, like the house,
otherwise he would not have been long suffered within its tranquil and
self-respecting walls.

Fenwick climbed and climbed, discovered the little wooden staircase,
and still climbed. At the very top he found a long and narrow
corridor, along which he groped in darkness. Suddenly, at the end, a
door opened, and a figure appeared on the threshold.

'Fenwick!--that you? All right!--no steps! The floor was left _au
naturel_ about 1680--but you won't come to grief.'

Fenwick arrived at the open door, and Dick Watson drew him into the
large studio beyond. Fenwick looked round him in astonishment. The
room was a huge _grenier_ in the roof of the old house, roughly
adapted to the purposes of a studio. A large window to the north had
been put in, and the walls had been rudely plastered. But all the
blasts of heaven seemed still to blow through them, and through the
chinks or under the eaves of the roof; while in the middle of the
floor a pool of water, the remains of a recent heavy shower, testified
to the ease with which the weather could enter if it chose.

'I say'--said Fenwick, pointing to the water--'can you stand this kind
of thing?'

Watson shivered.

'Not in this weather. I'm off next week. In the summer it's pleasant
enough. Well, it's deuced lucky I caught sight of you at that show
yesterday! How are you? I believe it's nearly two years since we met
last.'

'I'm all right,' said Fenwick, accepting a shaky seat and a cigarette.

Watson lighted a fresh one for himself, and then with arms akimbo
surveyed his visitor.

'I've seen you look better. What's the matter? Have you been working
through the summer in London?'

'I'm all right,' Fenwick repeated; then, with a little grimace--'or
I should be, if I could pay my way, and paint the things I want to
paint.'

He looked up.

'Well, why don't you?'

'Because--somehow--one has to live.'

Watson climbed on to his hig