"Because," said Tennant, "I understand that I am wearing Marlitt's shoes--and the shoes pinch." "Marlitt's shoes would certainly pinch you if you were wearing them," said Calvert, grimly. "But you are not. Suppose you were? Better wear even Marlitt's shoes than hop about the world barefoot. You are a singularly sensitive young man. I come up-town to offer you Warrington's place, and your reply is a homily on Marlitt's shoes!" Calvert's black eyes began to snap and his fat, pink face turned pinker. "Mr. Tennant," he said, "I am useful to those who are useful to me. I am a business man. I know of no man or syndicate of men wealthy enough to conduct a business for the sake of giving employment to the unsuccessful!" Tennant smoked thoughtfully. "Some incompetent," continued Calvert, "is trying to make you uncomfortable. You asked us for a chance; we gave you the chance. You proved valuable to us, and we gave you Marlitt's job. You need not worry: Marlitt was useless, and had to go anyway. Warrington left us to-day, and you've got to do his work." Tennant regarded him in silence; Calvert laid one pudgy hand on the door-knob. "You know what we think of your work. There is not a man in New York who has your chance. All I say is, we gave you the chance and you took it. Keep it; that's what we ask!" "That is what _I_ ask," said Tennant, with a troubled laugh. "I am sentimentalist enough to feel something like gratitude towards those who gave me my first opportunity." "Obligation's mutual," snapped Calvert. The hardness in his eyes, however, had died out. "You'd better finish that double page," he added; "they want to start the color-work by Monday. You'll hear from us if there's any delay. Good-bye." [Illustration: "'I WISH YOU'D GIVE MARLITT ANOTHER CHANCE'"] Tennant opened the door for him; Calvert, buttoning his gloves, stepped out into the hallway and rang for the elevator. Then he turned: "Don't let envy make things unpleasant for you, Mr. Tennant." "Nobody has shown me any envy," said Tennant. "I thought you said something about your friend Marlitt--" "I never saw Marlitt; I only know his work." "Oh," said Calvert, with a peculiar smile, "you only know his work!" "That is all. Who is Marlitt?" "The last of an old New York family; reduced circumstances, proud, incompetent, unsuccessful. Why does the artist who signs 'Marlitt' interest you?" "This is why," said Tennant, and drew a letter from his pocket. "Do you mind listening?" "Go on," said Calvert, with a wry face. And Tennant began: