"And she is a nice girl---- No, I'm dashed----"

"A monkey at three!" cried Adrian.

"Done!" said Peter.

It was a sad tale of depravity on one side, and of self-sacrificing friendship on the other, that Mr. Pottles and Dora Chatterton listened to that evening.

"He had made," said Adrian sadly, "a deliberate attempt to rob me of my fame before, and he repeated it. And yet, uncle, an old friend--boyhood's companion--how could I betray him? It was weak, but I could not. I stood by, and let him deceive you."

"You're a n.o.ble fellow," said Mr. Pottles, in tones of emotion.

"Indeed, yes," said Dora, with an adoring glance.

"There, let us say no more about it," pursued Adrian magnanimously. "I have my reward," and he returned Dora's glance behind Mr. Pottles' broad back.

The next time he met Peter, he said, "I am really immensely indebted to you, old fellow. My uncle has come down handsome, and if the monkey now would be conv----"

"By Gad, yes!" said Peter. He took it in crisp notes, and carefully pocketed them.

"And is Miss Dora kind?" he asked.

"She's an angel."

"And you are generally prosperous?"

"Thanks to you, my dear old friend."

"Then," said Peter, producing a piece of paper from his pocket, "you might persuade your publishers to withdraw this beastly thing." It was a writ, and it claimed an injunction to restrain Peter from claiming the authorship of "To Lalage."

"Then you've been publicly claiming it?"

"I had to keep up the illusion, Adrian. Do me justice."

"But," said Adrian, "how, Peter--how does it happen that the writ is dated the day _before_ we went to Clapham?"

He paused. Peter grinned uneasily. A light broke in on Adrian.

"Why," he exclaimed, "you're the villain who----"

"Exactly. Wonderfully provident of me, wasn't it? What, you're not going?"

"Never let me see your face again," said Adrian. "I have done with you."

He rushed out. Peter whistled gently, and said to himself, "Not a bad deal! He must stop the action, or the old man will twig."

Then he whistled again, and added, "Glad I got it in notes. He'd have stopped a check."

A third time he whistled, and chuckled and said, "Now, I wonder if old Adrian'll make five hundred and fifty out of it! Not a bad deal, Peter, my boy!"

MIDDLETON'S MODEL.

Middleton was doing very well; everybody admitted that--some patronizingly, others enviously. And yet Middleton aimed high. He eschewed pot-boilers, and devoted himself to important subject pictures, often of an allegorical description. Nevertheless, his works sold, and that so well that Middleton thought himself justified in taking a wife.

Here, again, good fortune attended him. Miss Angela Dove was fair to see, possessed of a nice little income, and, finally, a lady of taste, for she accepted Middleton's addresses. Decidedly a lucky fellow all round was Middleton. But, in spite of all his luck, his face was clouded with care as he sat in his studio one summer evening. Three months before he had been the recipient of a most flattering commission from that wealthy and esteemed connoisseur the Earl of Moneyton. The earl desired two panels for his hall. "I want," he wrote, "two full-length female figures--the one representing Heavenly Love, the other Earthly Love. Not a very new subject, you will say; but I have a fancy for it, and I can rely on your talent to impart freshness even to a well-worn theme."

Of course there was no difficulty about Heavenly Love. Angela filled the bill (the expression was Middleton's own) to a nicety. Her pretty golden hair, her sweet smile, her candid blue eyes, were exactly what was wanted. Middleton clapped on a pair of wings, and felt that he had done his duty. But when he came to Earthly Love the path was not so smooth.

The earl demanded the acme of physical beauty, and that was rather hard to find. Middleton tried all the models in vain; he frequented the theaters and music-halls to no purpose; he tried to combine all the beauties of his acquaintance in one harmonious whole, but they did not make what tea-dealers call a "nice blend." Then he tried to evolve Earthly Love out of his own consciousness, but he could get nothing there but Angela again; and although he did violence to his feelings by giving her black hair and an evil cast in her eye, he knew that, even thus transformed, she would not satisfy the earl. Middleton was in despair; his reputation was at stake. The thought of Angela could not console him.

"I'd give my soul for a model!" cried he, flinging aside his pencil in despair.

At this moment he heard a knock at the door. He existed on the charwoman system, and after six o'clock in the evening had to open his own door. A lady stood outside, and a neat brougham was vanishing round the corner.

Even in the darkness Middleton was struck by the grace and dignity of his visitor's figure.

"Mr. Middleton's, is it not?" she asked, in a very sweet voice.

Middleton bowed. It was late for a call, but if the lady ignored that fact, he could not remind her of it. Fortunately there was no chance of Angela coming at such an hour. He led the way to his studio.

"May I ask," he began, "to what I am indebted for this honor?"

"I see you like coming to business directly," she answered, her neatly gloved hands busy unpinning her veil. She seemed to find the task a little difficult.

"You see, it's rather late," said Middleton.

"Not at all. I am only just up. Well, then, to business. I hear you want a model for an Earthly Love."

"Exactly. May I ask if you----"

"If I am a model? Oh, now and then--not habitually."

"You know my requirements are somewhat hard to fulfill?"

"I can fulfill them," and she raised her veil. She certainly could. She realized his wildest dreams--the wildest dream of poets and painters since the world began. Middleton stood half-stupefied before her.

"Well, shall I do?" she asked, turning her smile on him.

Middleton felt as if it were a battery of guns, as he answered that he would be the happiest painter in the world if she would honor him.

"Head only, of course," she continued.

"Of course," said he hastily; "unless, that is, you will give me hands and arms too."

"I think not. My hands are not so good." And she glanced at her kid gauntlets with a smile.

"And--er--as to terms?" he stammered.

"Oh, the usual terms," she answered briskly.