worn these on the street before."
"You're not ashamed of them, though?" he interrogated. A moment he was silent, then sighed deeply. "It's the dream of my life—to be an artist. Please say you're not ashamed of your profession."
Only a second did Ivy puzzle over that before she answered. "No, not in the least." This was true whether he spoke of painters or actors. There was a suspicion in her mind, though, that he had made the mistake. Anyway, she never had been ashamed of her profession.
"I'm glad of that," he nodded. "For in God's world there are no nobler men than the artists."
Again she wondered whether he was speaking of artists in a large sense or particularly in reference to creators of pictures. And too, this time she was struck by the exclusive masculinity of his sentiment. She asked herself whether he could be making another mistake, a great big ludicrous mistake.
"There are women who paint, too," she said airily, in the tone of an impersonal observation. Then added in slight confusion, "I mean women artists, of course."
"Oh, certainly," he agreed, impatiently, she thought. "But I can't believe there is much sex rivalry in art. We give the women honor due. I mean we men do. Don't you think so?"
Ivy nodded sagely, exercising all her self-control. "Oh, we do. Indeed we do." She wanted to laugh immoderately. His mistake was so absurdly absurd. And yet she could not put him straight. She knew well that she could not face his serious regard and explain as kindly as he deserved to have it explained that she was an actress, a dancer instead of an inspired painter of pictures; that the trousers were a costume, not a habit.
Biting her lips to keep from smiling, she turned from him and stole on tiptoe to the corner of the show window to peep cautiously around. In front of the restaurant was Perreard himself, his hands flitting all ways at arm's length, his feet stamping the hard pavement. Several waiters jabbered with him excitedly, and bystanders joined in the fun. "Oh, I must go back," she told the young man, turning to him. "I'm needed. I've got to go—in only a minute." But after two minutes she still lingered. He joined her at the window corner and together they watched the crowd.
"Look here," he began suddenly. "You don't want to appear before that crowd do you? And unless you do, you can't get back to your studio until the excitement is over. Meanwhile—if you could stay—I—I'd like to talk to you,—if you'd let me,—please." There was eagerness and earnestness in his face, a sort of boyish enthusiasm that made Ivy want to stay. She wavered for an instant. She was thinking of Perreard. But again she turned the way her feet wanted to go, giving a mental snap of her fingers in his direction.
They drew back into the entrance.
"You see, I've never talked to a real artist before," the boy explained. "And I'm madly interested in painting. To nurse a canvas from absolute bleakness to something real, almost
