Chapter One.

“Art,” said the man, regarding lingeringly a half finished canvas standing on an easel in the middle of the poorly furnished room, and then the very insignificant little girl beside him, who had posed for him ever since she had dispensed with long clothes, and subsequently taken to them, again, and had always proved an unsatisfactory model from an artistic point of view, “is the only thing really worth living for, and yet it’s the most bally rotten thing to take up—as a bread winning profession, you understand. When you’ve got the bread, and plenty of it, it’s a very fine way of getting butter to it, and in exceptional cases preserves as well. I’m sorry,” with a smothered sigh of regret, “that I didn’t go in for something more satisfactory for your sake; I should have felt easier in my mind when it came to pegging out.”

But the girl was enthusiastic upon the subject as well as himself.

“It was your life’s work,” she answered; “you could not have done otherwise.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said, turning his head restlessly upon the cushion. “My life’s work! And what a poor thing I have made of it. What a grind it has been, and what a failure.”

“Don’t, dear,” she whispered, slipping her hand into his with a caressing, protecting gesture; “it hurts me to hear you. And after all there is nothing to regret. We have been very happy together, you and I; I wouldn’t have had it different. If you had been more successful in a worldly sense we might not have been all in all to one another as we have been. We have always managed to get along.”

“Yes,” he answered with a touch of masculine arrogance, “it was all right so long as I was well, but I shall never finish that canvas, Jill, though I’ve forced myself to work to the last; but I’m pegging out fast now—two legs in the grave,” with a flash of humour and the old light of mirth in his eyes again, “though I’m hanging on to the upper ground with both hands like the tenacious beggar I always was; but the sods are giving way, and I shall suddenly drop out of sight one day, and then—and then,” the sad look coming back to his face, “you’ll be left to fight the battle of life alone.”

The girl’s lip quivered, and she turned away her head to hide her emotion, fearful that any display of grief would hurt him, and sadden his last few hours on earth.

“I shall manage,” she answered confidently, “I shall teach; you have often said I was quite competent of doing that, and occasionally I sell my own work, you know.”

“Yes,” he said, “you have my talent, and I have taught you all I could. But I wish that I had more to leave you; there will be so little after all the expenses are paid.”

“There are the models—my art school stocked,” she replied with assumed cheerfulness. “I shall be only awaiting the pupils, and they will come after a while.”

The speech was a brave one, but her heart sank nevertheless. She was fairly self-reliant, but she had seen enough of the seamy side of life to realise how difficult it was, added to which she was devoted to her father, who was all she had in the world, and the knowledge that he was leaving her just when she seemed to need him most was very bitter. They had been comrades ever since she could remember, a bond that had made the roving, Bohemian life very pleasant, and the severing of which meant a loss that nothing could ever replace—a void no one else could fill. And yet she continued cheerful and bright, even gay at times, though each day found him weaker, and her own heart heavier, and more hopeless. But she choked down the lump that was always rising in her throat, and maintained a smiling exterior, despite her grief, until there was no need to conceal her feelings any longer, and then sorrow had its way, and found vent in a wild burst of uncontrollable weeping, which after half an hour exhausted both itself and her, and ended in a kind of general collapse. But there was very little time in which to indulge the luxury of grief. There was the future to think about; for it was necessary to live even if one did not feel greatly inclined to; and so Jill left her tiny bedroom with its sloping ceiling, and stole into the studio, bare, save for its model throne, and casts, its easel, table, and couple of cane-bottomed chairs, its smell of stale tobacco, and cheese, and the memory of the dear presence that once had sat there working and would work no more. With eyes blinded by tears, and hands that trembled she proceeded to dust the models, and put the room to rights, and as she did so her glance fell upon the still unfinished picture—her father’s last work—and, letting the dusting brush fall from her hand, she threw her arms about the neck of the Apollo Belvidere and wept afresh. Her next move, when this new outburst had subsided, was to take down the bust of Clytie from the shelf on which it stood and tenderly remove the specks of dust that had been allowed to gather there through the inevitable neglect of the past sad days. This had been her father’s favourite model. He had liked it on account of a certain worldliness of expression—a touch of the old Eve, he had been wont to say—which the others lacked! and so henceforth Clytie would possess an added attraction, a new interest for her born of pure sentiment.

When she had arranged the room to her satisfaction she set about writing out her advertisement, no very lengthy matter, for she had thought about it so continually of late that she knew exactly how to word it. She had come to the conclusion that it would be better not to let people know that she was just starting, so expressed herself in a noncommittal sort of way as follows:—“Miss Erskine’s Art School will re-open on January 15th. Classes, Tuesdays and Fridays 9:30 to 12:30 p.m., and 2:30—4:30 p.m., Geometry Classes every Wednesday evening from 7:30 to 9 o’clock.” Then followed the address and date, and the advertisement was completed and ready to appear. So far everything was easy, but Jill herself felt by no means sanguine of results. For one thing the locality was not very desirable, and the Art School commanded what many people in house hunting insist upon, a lofty situation, but in the latter instance, of course, it has nothing to do with stairs. Miss Erskine’s establishment was four storeys high, and the shape of the ceiling hinted unkindly at being in close communication with the slates. Would anybody who was able to pay for tuition be willing to climb those stairs twice a week, narrow and steep, and dark enough to be dangerous, not to mention the dust, which the obscurity hid, but which one’s olfactory organ detected unmistakably as one wended one’s way wearily up or down? No, it did not seem very probable, and yet it was just possible enough to leave a margin of hope in her otherwise despondent reasoning.

The next day, Jill had the sorry satisfaction of seeing her advertisement in print. It was stuck away in a corner of one of the least important columns, and did not look very imposing, but it occasioned her a little thrill of pride all the same, and gave her fresh heart to return to work, though she had endeavoured to sell a small canvas that morning for a proportionally small sum and had failed, a fact, considering the state of her exchequer, not conducive to great exhilaration.

Fortunately, the rent was settled for the next six months, and she had still some funds in hand, and after that—well,