pounds of flesh."

"And how I cleaned the knives!" said Philip, who was enjoying the reminiscences.

"Which helped your appetite for breakfast."

"And the boots—now, I did not like cleaning the boots."

"Yes, you did, and they never shone so beautifully."

"Well, I flatter myself I was able to make myself useful."

"Those were and will always be the dear old days of my life."

"And how pretty you looked," said Philip, "with a white apron on, and your sleeves tucked up, showing your lovely arms."

"Ah!" said Dora, "and do you also remember how you were once turned out of the kitchen for kissing the cook? You were sorry when I got a new servant."

"Upon my word, I believe I was."

"Ah!" exclaimed Dora, "you will never picnic like that again, you will never have such lovely times. My dear Philip, the very rich people must lead very dull lives. We look for happiness far ahead of us, when often we have it close at hand. The poet is right: 'Paradise is cheap enough, it's only the hells we make for ourselves that are expensive.' We are as rich now as we should ever wish to be. And, let me tell you that, if ever we get really rich (that will be through your fault), I shall find my consolation in the constant recollection of all the pleasures I enjoyed when I was poor—as the ear remains for ever under the charm of some sweet old melody that once struck it. I could go on for ever on this theme. Now, do you know the holiday of my life that I shall never forget?"

"Our trip to Paris with ten pounds in our pockets," replied Philip.

"That's not fair; you guess too quickly. Well, didn't we do it after all? We saw everything—the museums, the theatres, the gardens, and when we arrived home"—

"We had to borrow one-and-six from the servant to pay the cab fare from Charing Cross."

"Lovely!" cried Dora, clapping her hands with joy. "What fun we had—real, good, wholesome fun! Now, look at our little girl. She will hardly look at the beautiful dolls she has. She always goes back to the old stuffed stocking, with a face painted on the ball of cotton that does duty for a head. Now, why? Tell me why she prefers it to all the others."

"Oh, probably because she can ill-use it to her heart's content."

"Not a bit of it; because it reminds her of the happiest, the jolliest days of her life. The pleasures of poverty again, my dear Philip, the sweetest, the never-to-be-forgotten ones—alas, never to be enjoyed again, perhaps!"

"I will see that they are not," said Philip.

"Oh, Philip, tell me that you are happy now, that the ambition of your life will be your work, your art, not money."

"Certainly, darling. But, let me tell you also, honestly, that the greatest pleasure in connection with my days of poverty" ...

"Well?"

"Is that I am poor no longer."

"You incorrigible cynic."

Dora looked at Philip for some moments.

"Oh, Philip," she cried, "say that you are only teasing me, that you don't mean a word of it."

"Yes, dear, I am only teasing you," said Philip indifferently. "Now, little wife, you must be quiet and let me work, or this portrait will never be finished to-day."

Philip looked at the clock, then at his watch. It was half-past one. A ring was heard at the studio door. He shivered with excitement. "It is perhaps de Lussac," he said to himself.

"I hope it is not that bothering Sir Benjamin coming to disturb me," he said to Dora.

Gerald Lorimer, for whom there was always a cover laid at Philip's table, entered the studio.

"Why, it's Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, rising, and going to shake hands with his friend. "I am as hungry as a hound; I'll go and wash my hands, and we'll have lunch at once."

"Well, and how goes the portrait?" said Lorimer.

"My dear fellow," replied Philip, "I shall have to take a studio a mile or two off, so that my wife will not be able to come and chatter and hinder me from working. Look at it: here have I been for the past two hours in front of this easel, and done half an hour's painting at most."

Philip ran upstairs to wash and change his coat, and quickly rejoined Dora and Lorimer in the dining-room.