the imagination that has permitted you to write that 'Land o'
Love.' My dear man, you might just as well go and commit suicide in some
decent way. If you don't look out, you're done for!"

"Don't be an ass, Gordon," I told him, lighting my pipe.

"All right, it's your own funeral. But don't come to me, afterwards, and
weep on my shirtfront, that's all. Women get over the loss of a
husband, they even become reconciled to the death of a baby, sometimes.
And this one has music in her soul, and for ever and a day she is going
to deplore the song that fled from her lips. She'll always be unhappy
and you'll have to keep on consoling, and the freedom of your thoughts
will vanish, and, when you try to write, you will have her and her
miseries always before you. Then you will shed tears on your typewriter
instead of producing anything. Better give Frieda some money for her and
go fishing. Don't come back until the Milliken woman sends a postal
telling you that the coast is clear."

"I know nothing about fishing," I answered.

"Then go and learn."

"You're talking arrant nonsense," I informed him.

"I am giving you the quintessence of solid wisdom," he retorted. "But
now I'll tell you about her posing for me. I'm not doing this for your
sake or hers, but because she has a really interesting head, and I know
myself. I can get a good picture out of her, and I'll employ her for
about three weeks. That'll be plenty. After that, I expect to go away
and stay with the Van Rossums in the country. While Mrs. Dupont is busy
posing for me, you and Frieda can look up another job for her. Let me
see; I might possibly be able to pass her on to some other studio, if
she takes to posing, properly."

I put my pipe down, intending to strike while the iron was hot.

"Come in with me," I told him.

"Of course you understand that in some ways she's going to be a good
deal of a nuisance," he said hurriedly. "The baby squalling when I've
just happened to get into my stride and the mother having to retire to
feed the thing. But never mind, she's got quite a stunning face."

I knocked at her door, although I could see her sitting at the window
with the baby in her arms.

"Please don't trouble to get up," I said. "My friend Gordon happens to
need a model; he's thinking of a picture of a mother and child and has
told me that, if you could pose for him, he would be glad to employ you.
It wouldn't last very long, but you would have the baby with