ith a certain manner--that his price was
too low--"as yet." Rapidly estimating the pretty woman, and catching the
tone of her last word, the gentleman said no more about the picture; but
presently left the studio and the lady together, and returned to his
club--to bide his time.

Six weeks saw the end of the first phase of this oft-acted drama.
Intoxicated by the success which no one had as yet explained to him,
Joseph began suddenly to discover spending-powers of his own. After
that, work as he would, a Raphael could scarcely have kept his _menage_
out of debt. Irina, watching her lover minutely, and perfectly
foreseeing the forthcoming exigencies of the situation, was quite
prepared when Joseph came to her for advice. That night was the first on
which they drove to a certain house in the aristocratic Sretenskaia,
where, by day and by night, the various rooms glowed with light, and,
during twenty hours of the day, a dozen great, green tables were
wreathed by men and women to whose ears the chink and rustle of gold and
notes were sounds that followed and drove them, day by day, night by
night, on towards that low-lying land where dwell the throngs that are
gathered together in the outer darkness that is so much denser than the
tomb.

Lights!--Green tables, gold-bespattered!--The droning undertone of
_croupiers_; the continual, languid in-rake and out-rake of golden
piles, of crackling notes, of _rouleaux_--on one of which the old-time
Joseph could have lived so well for months: here, side by side, the
much-remarked woman, the pale-faced, angel-eyed youth, quietly took
their places, and began to play.

CHAPTER XIX

HIS HARVEST

"No Ivan, you'll do better alone. You have influence with him.--Good
God! a year ago he worshipped you! I believe there was something you
told him--some pointer you gave him at one time about work, that made an
immense impression on him.--You mean something to him. Me, he dislikes.
He knew months ago that I--well, saw something of his infirmity. But,
while I don't believe in him, this affair mustn't go on. The fellow
_could_ have learned to paint. He's killing himself now, not physically,
but mentally and morally.--The whole city's waked up to him. His pace is
unprecedented.

"Come, there's nothing more to say, Ivan Mikhailovitch. Go and pull your
protege out of the mire--if you can!"

The two men rose, simultaneously. Ivan was very pale. He was still in
the first shock of full r