rd too."

"Good-looking girl," quoth Diogenes dryly, "and would make you a good
model, Frans. For a few kreutzers she'd be glad enough to do it."

"I'll have none of these vixens inside my house," interposed Mevrouw
Hals decisively, "and don't you teach Frans any of your loose ways, my
man."

Diogenes made no reply, he only winked at his friend. No doubt he
thought that Hals no longer needed teaching.

The two men repaired to the studio, a huge bare room littered with
canvases, but void of furniture, save for an earthenware stove in which
fortunately a cheerful fire was blazing, a big easel roughly fashioned
of deal, a platform for the model to stand on, and two or three
rush-bottomed chairs: there was also a ramshackle dowry chest, black
with age, which mayhap had once held the piles of homemade linen brought
as a dowry by the first Mevrouw Hals: now it seemed to contain a
heterogeneous collection of gaudy rags, together with a few fine
articles of attire, richly embroidered relics of more prosperous days.

The artist went straight up to the chest and from out the litter he
selected a bundle of clothes which he handed over to his friend.

"Slip into them as quickly as you can, old compeer," he said, "my
fingers are itching to get to work."

And while he fixed the commenced picture on the easel and set out his
palette, Diogenes threw off his shabby clothes and donned the gorgeous
doubtlet and sash which the painter had given him.

CHAPTER X

THE LAUGHING CAVALIER

We all know every fold of that doubtlet now, with its magnificent
sleeves, crimson-lined and richly embroidered, its slashings which
afford peeps of snowy linen, and its accessories of exquisite lace; the
immortal picture then painted by Frans Hals, and which he called the
Laughing Cavalier, has put its every line on record for all times.

Diogenes wore it with delight. Its splendour suited his swaggering air
to perfection: its fine black cloth, delicate lace and rich silk sash
set off to perfection his well-proportioned massive figure.

A joy to the artist every bit of him, the tone, the pose, the line, the
colour and that face full of life, of the joy of living, that merry
twinkle in the eyes, that laugh that for ever hovers on the lips.

We all stand before it, marvelling at the artist's skill, for we know
that the portrait is true to the life; we know that it is true, because
we know the man; his whole character is there indelibly wr