he Parisian _queue_, but crowd around
the pen with the cry of "Laissez passer." One ought really to have one's
little brains divided into thought-tight compartments, so that one could
turn on perfect gentlemen, biggest scoundrels, or would-be Emperors,
without being flooded by the immortals of the Institute, or those gods
of the day representing the arts and sciences, whom it was one's good
fortune to have known. Some special bulkheads or barriers should be
provided to restrain the lovely types of womanhood that memories evoke.

I have to get back to Bella and Frida, and tell of heavy clouds that
arose to darken our path, and of how I came to draw a portrait that has
left a lasting impression in my mind. So I will but cursorily mention
that there were one or two of the above-named lovely types that
commiserated the unlicked cub, and set themselves the difficult task of
raising him, if not to their level, to within measurable distance of it.
It was rather an awkward position for the cub when one of them more than
usually warm-hearted and liberal, foreshadowed the bestowal of a first
prize if the unlicked one proved himself an apt pupil. Of this I said
something in a letter to Bella, for I occasionally remembered that she
had wished me to tell her "all about--I mean something about" what I
was doing. I gave the incident in a diluted form, merely hinting that
the lessons might be learnt in Paris, but could be better applied
elsewhere. Yes! When I come to think of it, I am sure Bella was my
guiding star, shedding a ray of light just when I particularly wanted it
to show me the right way.

It was now more than a twelvemonth since I had gone to Paris, and the
time was drawing near when, in accordance with the good old fashion, I
should spend Christmas at home. Notwithstanding all the attractions of
upper and lower Paris, I had been working hard, drawing from morning to
night, and sometimes from night to morning. Those were the days when a
humble student might still worship at the shrine of a Vandyke or a
Rembrandt, when the war-cry, "Nous avons change tout cela," had not yet
sounded, and the Messiahs of modern art were not yet busy proclaiming
their newly-found truth from the house-tops, and painting there, too,
lest a particle of light should get lost. So I was still quite naively
addicted to drawing portraits by lamplight, putting in deep shadows and
deeper accents, and picking out high lights on the breadths of foreheads