In the Quarter

``Going home, Rex?'' inquired Clifford, picking up a brush and sending a fine spray of turpentine over Elliott, who promptly returned the attention.

``Quit that,'' growled Gethryn, ``don't ruin those brushes.''

``What's the nouveau like, Clifford?'' asked Elliott. ``We heard you instructing him a little. He seems to have the true Englishman's sense of humor.''

``Oh, he's not a bad sort,'' said Clifford. ``Come and be introduced. I'm half ashamed of myself for guying him, for he's really a very decent, plucky fellow, a bit stiff and pig-headed, as many of 'em are at first, and as for humor, I suppose they know their own kind, but they do get a little confused between fact and fancy when they converse with us.''

The two strolled off with friendly intent, to seek out and ameliorate the loneliness of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.

Gethryn tied up his brushes, closed his color box and, flinging on his hat, hurried down the stairs and into the court, nodding to several students who passed with canvas and paint-boxes tucked under their arms. He reached the street, and, going through the Passage Brady, emerged upon the Boulevard Sebastopol.

A car was passing and he boarded it, climbing up to the imperiale. The only vacant seat was between a great, red-faced butcher, and a market woman from the Halles, and although the odors of raw beef and fish were unpleasantly perceptible, he settled himself back and soon became lost in his own thoughts. The butcher had a copy of the Petit Journal and every now and then he imparted bits of it across Gethryn, to the market woman, lingering with relish over the criminal items.

``Dites donc,'' he cried, ``here is the affair Rigaud!''

Gethryn roused up and listened.

``This morning, I knew it,'' cackled the woman, folding her fat hands across her apron. ``I said to Sophie, `Voyons Sophie,' I said – ''

``Shut up,'' interrupted the butcher, ``I'm going to read.''

``I was sure of it,'' said the woman, addressing Gethryn, ```Voyons, Sophie,' said – '' but the butcher interrupted her, again reading aloud:

``The condemned struggled fearfully, and it required the united efforts of six gendarmes – ''

``Cochon!'' said the woman.

``Listen, will you!'' cried the man. ``Some disturbance was caused by a gamin who broke from the crowd and attacked a soldier. But the miserable was seized and carried off, screaming. Two gold pieces of 20 francs each fell from some hiding-place in his ragged clothes and were taken charge of by the police.''

The man paused and gloated over the column. ``Here,'' he cried, ``Listen – `Even under the knife the condemned – '''

Gethryn rose roughly and, crowding past the man, descended the steps and, entering the car below, sat down there.

``Butor!'' roared the butcher. ``Cochon! He trod on my foot!''

``He is an English pig!'' sneered the woman, reaching for the newspaper. ``Let me read it now,'' she whined.

``Hands off,'' growled the man, ``I'll read you what I think good.''

``But it's my paper.''

``It's mine now – shut up.''

The first thing Gethryn did on reaching home was to write a note to his friend, the Prefect of the Seine, telling him how the child of Rigaud came by the gold pieces. Then he had a quiet smoke, and then he went out and lunched at the Café des Écoles, frugally, on a sandwich and a glass of beer. After that he returned to his studio and sat down to his desk again. He opened a small memorandum book and examined some columns of figures. They were rather straggling, not very well kept, but they served to convince him that his accounts were forty francs behind, and he would have to economize a little for the next week or two. After this, he sat and thought steadily. Finally he took a sheet of his best cream laid note paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write. The note was short, but it took him a long while to compose it, and when it was sealed and directed to ``Miss Ruth Deane, Lung' Arno Guicciardini, Florence, Italy,'' he sat holding it in his hand as if he did not know what to do with it.

Two o'clock struck. He started up, and quickly rolling up the shades from the glass roof and pulling out his easel, began to squeeze tube after tube of color upon his palette. The parrot came down and tiptoed about the floor, peering into color boxes, pastel cases, and pots of black soap, with all the curiosity of a regulation studio bore. Steps echoed on the tiles outside.

Gethryn opened the door quickly. ``Ah, Elise! Bon jour!'' he said, pleasantly. ``Entrez donc!''

``Merci, Monsieur Gethryn,'' smiled his visitor, a tall, well-shaped girl with dark eyes and red cheeks.

``Ten minutes late,'' Elise, said Gethryn, laughing, ``my time's worth a franc a minute; so prepare to pay up.''

``Very well,'' retorted the girl, also laughing and showing her pretty teeth, ``but I have decided to charge twenty francs an hour from today. Now, what do you owe me, Monsieur?''

Gethryn shook his brushes at her. ``You are spoiled, Elise – you used to pose very well and were never late.''

``And I pose well now!'' she cried, her professional pride piqued. ``Monsieur Bonnat and Monsieur Constant have praised me all this week. Voila,'' she finished, throwing off her waist and letting her skirts fall in a circle to her feet.

``Oh, you can pose if you will,'' answered Gethryn, pleasantly. ``Come, we begin?''

The girl stepped daintily out of the pile of discarded clothes, and picking her way across the room with her bare feet, sprang lightly upon the model stand.

``The same as last week?'' she asked, smiling frankly.

``Yes, that's it,'' he replied, shifting his easel and glancing up at the light; ``only drop the left elbow a bit – there, that's it; now a little to the left – the knee – that will do.''

The girl settled herself into the pose, glanced at the clock, and then turning to Gethryn said, ``And I am to look at you, am I not?''

``Where could you find a more charming object?'' murmured he, sorting his brushes.

``Thank you,'' she pouted, stealing a glance at him; ``than you?''

``Except Mademoiselle Elise. There, now we begin!''

The rest of the hour was disturbed only by the sharp rattle of brushes and the scraping of the palette knife.

``Are you tired?'' asked Gethryn, looking at the clock; ``you have ten minutes more.''

``No,'' said the girl, ``continue.''

Finally Gethryn rose and stepped back.

``Time,'' he said, still regarding his work. ``Come and give me a criticism, Elise.''

The girl stretched her limbs, and then, stepping down, trotted over to Gethryn.

``What do you say?'' he demanded, anxiously.

Artists often pay more serious attention to the criticisms of their models than to those of a brother artist. For, although models may be ignorant of method – which, however, is not always the case – from seeing so much good work they acquire a critical acumen which often goes straight to the mark.

It was for one of these keen criticisms that the young man was listening now.

``I like it very much – very much,'' answered the girl, slowly; ``but, you see – I am not so cold in the face – am I?''

``Hit it, as usual,'' muttered the artist, biting his lip; ``I've got more greens and blues in there than there are in a peacock's tail. You're right,'' he added, aloud, ``I must warm that up a bit – there in the shadows, and keep the high lights pure and cold.''

Elise nodded seriously. ``Monsieur Chaplain and I have finished our picture,'' she announced, after a pause.