rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms.
'What an amazing model!' whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend.
'An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; 'I should think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with every day. A trouvaille, mon cher; a living Velasquez! My stars! what an etching Rembrandt would have made of him!'
'Poor old chap!' said Hughie, 'how miserable he looks! But I suppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?'
'Certainly' replied Trevor, 'you don't want a beggar to look happy, do you?'
'How much does a model get for sitting? 1 asked Hughie, as he found himself a comfortable seat on a divan.
'A shilling an hour.'
'And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?'
'Oh, for this I get two thousand!'
'Pounds?'
'Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas.'
'Well, I think the model should have a percentage,' cried Hughie, laughing; 'they work quite as hard as you do.'
'Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the
