'Yes, I do like him. But he's different from these men; he doesn't make love to me. I like him to like me, but I don't think I should like him if he made love to me.' 'You're an odd girl; I don't believe there's another like you.' 'I can't think how you can like all these men to make love to you.' 'They don't all make love to me,' Elsie answered quickly. 'I hope you don't think there's anything wrong. It is merely Platonic.' 'I should hope so. But they waste a great deal of your time.' 'Yes, that's the worst of it. I like men, men are my life, I don't mind admitting it. But I know they've interfered with my painting. That's the worst of it.' Then the conversation turned on Cissy Clive. 'Cissy is a funny girl,' Elsie said. 'For nine months out of every twelve she leads a highly- respectable life in West Kensington. But every now and then the fit takes her, and she tells her mother, who believes every word she says, that she's staying with me. In reality, she takes rooms in Clarges Street, and has a high old time.' 'I once heard her whispering to you something about not giving her away if you should happen to meet her mother.' 'I remember, about Hopwood Blunt. He had just returned from Monte Carlo.' 'But I suppose it is all right. She likes talking to him.' 'I don't think she can find much to talk about to Hopwood Blunt,' said Elsie, laughing. 'Haven't you seen him? He is often in the galleries.' 'What does she say?' 'She says he's a great baby--that he amuses her.' Next day, Mildred went to visit Cissy in the unfrequented gallery where her 'Bather' would not give scandal to the visitors. She had nearly completed her copy; it was excellent, and Mildred could not praise it sufficiently. Then the girls spoke of Elsie and Walter. Mildred said: 'She seems very fond of him.' 'And of how many others? Elsie never could be true to a man. It was just the same in the Academy schools. And that studio of hers? Have you been to any of her tea-parties? They turn down the lights, don't they?' As Mildred was about to answer, Cissy said, 'Oh, here's Freddy.' Mr. Hopwood Blunt was tall and fair, a brawny young Englishman still, though the champagne of fashionable restaurants and racecourses was beginning to show itself in a slight puffiness in his handsome florid cheeks. He shook hands carelessly with Miss Clive, whom he called Cis, and declared himself dead beat. She hastened to hand him her chair. 'I know what's the matter with you,' she said, 'too much champagne last night at the Cafe Royal.' 'Wrong again. We weren't at the Cafe Royal, we dined at the Bristol. Don't like the place; give me the good old Cafe Savoy.' 'How many bottles?' 'Don't know; know that I didn't drink my share. It was something I had after.'