it upon the
canvas by the master-hand of a genius:--Diogenes the soldier of fortune
is there, the man who bows to no will save to his own, too independent
to bow to kindred or to power, the man who takes life as he finds it,
but leavens it with his own gaiety and the priceless richness of his own
humour: we know him for his light-hearted gaiety, we condone his
swagger, we forgive his reckless disregard of all that makes for
sobriety and respectability. The eyes twinkle at us, the mouth all but
speaks, and we know and recognize every detail as true; only the fine,
straight brow, the noble forehead, the delicate contour of the nose and
jaw puzzle us at times, for those we cannot reconcile with the man's
calling or with his namelessness, until we remember his boast in the
tavern of the "Lame Cow" on New Year's morning: "My father was one of
those who came in English Leicester's train."

So we see him now standing quite still, while the artist is absorbed in
his work: his tall figure very erect, the head slightly thrown back, the
well-shaped hand resting on the hip and veiled in folds of filmy lace.
And so did Mynheer Nicolaes Beresteyn see him as he entered the artist's
studio at ten o'clock of that same New Year's morning.

"A happy New Year to you, my good Hals," he said with easy
condescension. "Vervloekte weather, eh--for the incoming year! there
must be half a foot of snow in the by-streets by now."

With that same air of graciousness he acknowledged the artist's
obsequious bow. His father Mynheer Councillor Beresteyn was an avowed
patron of Frans Hals and the hour had not yet struck in civilized Europe
when wealth would go hat in hand bowing to genius and soliciting its
recognition. In this year of grace 1624 genius had still to hold the hat
and to acknowledge if not to solicit the kindly favours of wealth.

Nicolaes Beresteyn did not know exactly how to greet the man with whom
he had a few hours ago bandied arguments in the tap room of a tavern,
and whom--to tell the truth--he had expressly come to find. The
complaisant nod which he had bestowed on Frans Hals did not somehow seem
appropriate for that swaggering young knight of industry, who looked
down on him from the high eminence of the model's platform so that
Nicolaes was obliged to look well up, if he wished to meet his glance at
all.

It was the obscure soldier of fortune who relieved the pompous burgher
of his embarrassment.

"Fate hath evidently not m