ren, and his
shoulders are a dream!"

"So far," I told her, "I have fought shy of the squared circle in my
literary studies and know little about it. But I surmise that, if your
Orion continues his occupation, he is likely to lose some of his good
looks. Be sure and paint his face first, Frieda, while the painting is
still good, and before his nose is pushed askew and he becomes adorned
with cauliflower ears."

"I know nothing of such things," she answered, "and he's a delight to
paint."

"But for that perfectly accidental defeat, the man would have refused to
appear as a demigod," I asserted. "A champion would think himself too
far above such an individual."

"That's neither here nor there," she asserted, impatiently. "When I try
to talk, you're always wandering off into all sorts of devious paths.
What I wanted to say was that, if any of your acquaintances happen to
require a very competent truck-driver, the Kid is out of a job. Of
course I can't afford to pay him much. He poses for me to oblige his
sister."

"The youth appears to have several strings to his bow," I remarked,
wondering why Frieda should ever think I could possibly know people in
need of truck-drivers. But then, she never leaves a stone unturned, when
she seeks to help more or less deserving people.

In my honor she put on her most terrific hat, and we went arm in arm to
Camus, where she revelled in olives and radishes and conscientiously
went through the bill of fare.

"Do you know, Frieda, I am thanking goodness for the advent of that
baby," I told her. "It has permitted me to enjoy more of your company
than I have for months and months. Every minute I can feel that you are
growing nearer and dearer to me."

She showed her fine teeth, laughing heartily. She delights in having
violent love made to her by some one who doesn't mean it. To her it
constitutes, apparently, an excruciatingly funny joke. Also to me, when
I consider her hat, but, when she is bareheaded, I am more serious, for,
then, she often looks like a real woman, possessing in her heart the
golden casket wherein are locked the winged passions. _Quien sabe?_ She
is, perhaps, fortunate in that filmy goddesses and ethereal youths have
so filled her thoughts that a mere man, to her, is only the gross
covering of something spiritual that has sufficed for her needs. Poor,
dear, fat Frieda! A big gold and crimson love bursting out from beneath
the varnish covering her hazy pigments wo