The soft, sleepy tones of his voice which, only that they happened to be peculiarly clear, would never have been heard at all, added rather to this effect. Strange, however, was quite aware that the eyes of the fellow spoke the truth, and that the hair and the soft speech lied. His father had been curate in the parish where Strange’s father was the Squire, and even then the big boy had been good to the little one, and the unequal friendship was still kept up between the two. It was a pleasant little corner in the life of the older man, it was the best part of life to the boy, and no one had a notion of the intense love and gratitude he bore to the big notable man who took the trouble to know him. Strange had stood by him in the bad crisis of his life, when things had come to a head and his father, the curate, had put down his foot and damned art permanently, and the boy, for his part, had comprehensively damned the church, and had then stepped out of the parental porch with a five-pound note in his pocket, and in his eyes the yearning greed for colour. “How are you getting on?” said Strange. “Oh, I live, and I hardly owe a thing, which is a consolation, in case I happened to die off in a hurry, and had to be beholden to the governor to fork up. I have no feelings at all about the funeral expenses or the shroud, I shall make no provision for these, they seem in his line, somehow. But it would cut the old man up frightfully if he had to pay the models or the beer, or anything smacking of the devil, you know—Would you mind turning your face an inch to the right?” “What are you at? Haven’t you got the brick-dust yet?” “Yes, in a way, but I want to sketch you,” said Brydon, measuring him with his pencil, “I won’t be long; you look so cool, and big, and ‘kinder’ dogged, you’ve given me a notion. You’ve grown frightfully since you went away, especially about the eyes, they’ve got so beastly deep and intricate, why don’t you have eyes like decent God-fearing mortals?” “Ask my parents; if they refuse you the information, I can only refer you to my godfather and godmother—By the way, what’s wrong with you, Charlie?” “Me!—Nothing!—I had another bout of rheumatic fever a month ago, and I have felt a trifle stodgy since at times, especially after a grind up these stairs.” “Heart!” thought Strange. “Poor beggar! it’ll be hard on him if he’s carried off before he learns to draw. Will you dine with me to-day?” Brydon’s face lit, he had ecstatic memories of dinners with Strange, and as a matter of fact his dinners for two days past, had consisted of bread—and mustard to give it a relish. “Thank you, old man, I can’t—I can’t go anywhere till Friday.” “Why, in Heaven’s name?” “I have some black and white to do,” he said mixing some paint hurriedly. Strange took a glance at his back view and shrugged his shoulders. “The beggar’s sure to let it out, he always does,” he reflected. After a few minutes’ silent painting Brydon turned round.