“Fourth floor, first door to the right,” answered the portress, angry at being interrupted; and as Paul ran up the stairs, she muttered, “A young chap with no manners, taking the words out of a body’s mouth like that! Next time he comes, I’ll serve him out somehow.” Paul found the door, with a card with the word “Andre” marked upon it nailed up, and rapped on the panel. He heard the sound of a piece of furniture being moved, and the jingle of rings being passed along a rod; then a clear, youthful voice answered, “Come in!” Paul entered, and found himself in a large, airy room, lighted by a skylight, and exquisitely clean and orderly. Sketches and drawings were suspended on the walls; there was a handsome carpet from Tunis, and a comfortable lounge; a mirror in a carved frame, which would have gladdened the heart of a connoisseur, stood upon the mantelpiece. An easel with a picture upon it, covered with a green baize curtain, stood in one corner. The young painter was in the centre of his studio, brush and palette in hand. He was a dark, handsome young man, well built and proportioned, with close-cut hair, and a curling beard flowing down over his chest. His face was full of expression, and the energy and vigor imprinted upon it formed a marked contrast to the appearance of Mascarin’s _protégé_. Paul noticed that he did not wear the usual painter’s blouse, but was carefully dressed in the prevailing fashion. As soon as he recognized Paul, Andre came forward with extended hand. “Ah,” said he, “I am pleased to see you, for I often wondered what had become of you.” Paul was offended at this familiar greeting. “I have had many worries and disappointments,” said he. “And Rose,” said Andre, “how is she--as pretty as ever, I suppose?” “Yes, yes,” answered Paul negligently; “but you must forgive me for having vanished so suddenly. I have come to repay your loan, with many thanks.” “Pshaw!” returned the painter, “I never thought of the matter again; pray, do not inconvenience yourself.” Again Paul felt annoyed, for he fancied that under the cloak of assumed generosity the painter meant to humiliate him; and the opportunity of airing his newly-found grandeur occurred to him. “It was a convenience to me, certainly,” said he, “but I am all right now, having a salary of twelve thousand francs.” He thought that the artist would be dazzled, and that the mention of this sum would draw from him some exclamations of surprise and envy. Andre, however, made no reply, and Paul was obliged to wind up with the lame conclusion, “And at my age that is not so bad.” “I should call it superb. Should I be indiscreet in asking what you are doing?” The question was a most natural one, but Paul could not reply to it, as he was entirely ignorant as to what his employment was to be, and he felt as angry as if the painter had wantonly insulted him.