“No, hang it! For a painter there are no pretty, no ugly girls; no pretty, no ugly landscapes; no agreeable, no disagreeable subjects. Only a surface to be transferred to canvas, to be truthfully rendered. And that’s what business men, with their lack of imagination, will never understand.” He spoke hotly. “I confess I have a lack of imagination when it comes to an appreciation of the artistic temperament.” Marden said this so slyly that Serle at once begged his pardon. “After all, we are not at Delmonico’s just to thrash out a stale question. Pray go on--your story interests me strangely.” “It’s not very interesting--that’s all I know. The woman left the man----” “For another?” calmly interjected Vincent. “Not at all, not at all--that is, not at the time.” The lawyer fumbled his glass, his expression overcast. “You know what strange creatures women are. I had the greatest difficulty in persuading my client to make up her mind. She suffered, yet she cared for the fellow----” Serle impatiently asked: “But you haven’t revealed what the fellow did to her--what his special crime! Didn’t he give her a good home?” “My dear sir! A good home when he turned night into day! A good home when he seldom put brush to canvas! A good home--why, I thought I told you he was too friendly with his models.” “His models! A portraitist! Do you mean his sitters? Did he flirt with them? If he did so he was a fool, for he was killing the goose that laid the--No, I’ll not be so impolite. I meant to say he would endanger his reputation.” Marden dryly laughed. “That’s good--reputation is good. My client informed me, and she is a serious woman, that she never met an artist who could be relied upon. And she knew, for she was one herself.” Serle’s jaw dropped. “How odd! What did she do?” “Oh, she painted a little, just enough to make pin-money and to annoy her husband. You see, it was this way. She did not care to take money from a man she loathed.” “Loathed!” “I said--loathed. She literally loathed him. She told me so.” “Why didn’t she leave him sooner? Besides, a few moments ago you said he never offered her money. Now, she loathed him so she wouldn’t take any----” “Ah! That’s not in my fable,” tartly answered Marden. Again he turned gloomy and tapped nervously on the table. The afternoon waned. A soft light slipped through the high curtained windows and modulated into glancing semitones over the richly decorated apartment. Several men entered--the vanguard of the five-o’clock brigade of absintheurs. Serle became nervous. What if!--But he determined to take the chance of seeing some imbecile who might salute him by name. He leaned forward on his folded arms and asked with a show of concern: “And what became of your charming client?” “My charming--Oh! Why, she married and settled down.” “At last! Is she happy?” “How can I tell?” The response betrayed an irritable nuance.