him, and introduced him to several of his own friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the studio were given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle of the old, respected and feared, the truly great.
The rest finished, the model resumed his place and work went on in a chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art student utters when studying the beautiful.
Five o’clock struck,—the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on top of a Montrouge tram and shortly afterward was joined by Clifford.
They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.
“I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “I like the walk through the Luxembourg.”
“By the way,” said Hastings, “how can I call on you when I don’t know where you live?”
“Why, I live opposite you.”
“What—the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the blackbirds———”
“Exactly,” said Clifford. “I’m with my friend Elliott.”
Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.
Clifford continued, “Perhaps you had better let me know when you think of coming so,—so that I will be sure to—to be there,” he ended rather lamely.
“I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model
