"I am afraid, Mr. Roscoe, that my visit is inopportune. Perhaps at another time—"
"Oh, not at all, not at all. I've worked long enough, and am glad to knock off for a while. Drop the pose, Becky," he said, addressing the young woman on the platform. "I guess," he continued, "that, on the whole, you might as well go for to-day. I shan't get to work for some time now, and this afternoon I'm going out."
"Shall I come to-morrow?" asked the model, hopping down in her glittering draperies.
"Yes. Come early, and we'll make a good start."
The girl disappeared behind the screen and shortly emerged attired in a matter-of-fact costume of blue flannel, in which, for some obscure reason, she appeared less of an impropriety, and left the studio without further ceremony. "Take a seat, Mr. Ellice," said the artist, and, clearing a chair of a heterogeneous mass of color-tubes, palettes, a bunch of withered roses, a French novel, and a blacking-brush, he offered it with easy hospitality to his guest. Mr. Ellice seated himself gingerly. The chair was of carved oak, and its spindle legs did not invite confidence. The old gentleman, in unconsciously comic contrast to his seat, sat well forward, holding in either hand his umbrella and his glossy hat. Mr. Roscoe in an unstudied attitude leaned against a pile of boxes upon which a mass of white fur was disposed, and chatted airily.
"I'm trying to work up something good out of this," he said, nodding toward the canvas on the easel, "but I've had no end of bother with my model: she doesn't take the pose to suit me. It's a 'Lamia,' you see, and to my thinking there's not enough, so to speak, sinuosity about it yet. That sort of thing is deuced difficult, you know, particularly if the model doesn't catch the idea. Becky says she feels out of joint in the pose, and I'm afraid my 'Lamia' looks so. How does it strike you, Mr. Ellice?" he asked confidingly.
"Me?" said the old gentleman, somewhat abashed by this abrupt appeal. "Oh, I know but little of such matters. I should not like to give an opinion. But I should like a few moments' conversation with you, Mr. Boscoe, on another topic. I have recently received a letter from you in reference to my younger daughter."
"Yes, sir. I want to marry her."
"So I understood."
"Well, I hope it is all settled, Mr. Ellice," said Frank.
"By no means, Mr. Boscoe. There is much to consider before that can be said. Before giving my consent in so important a matter I must satisfy myself as to your qualifications as a husband for my daughter. You see the justice of this, I hope?"
"Oh, yes. That's fair enough. I am ready to answer any questions you choose to ask."
"In the first place, you can, I presume, give me satisfactory references as to your habits, moral character, and so forth?"
Frank flushed a little, but answered quite readily, "Certainly. I refer you to my entire circle of acquaintance. You may investigate my career from infancy up to date. I'm not a saint, but I'm not afraid to have my character looked at in broad daylight."
"And as to your financial position, is that equally open to investigation?"
Frank was idly dabbing little oily patches of color on his palette with one of the brushes he held.
"Well," he said, with a laugh which his white teeth illumined brilliantly, "it is open to investigation, but I'm afraid you'll strike some snags there. To say the truth, I'm confoundedly hard up just now."
"In that case, Mr. Roscoe, do you consider yourself justified in asking my daughter to share your lot?"
"Oh, as to that, you know," said Frank comfortably, "I'm always hard up, more or less. We artists get used to that. I can always contrive to scratch along somehow."
"Pardon me, Mr. Boscoe, but it would not be satisfactory to me to con-
