Bartell looked up, having, after incredible finesse, slain and weighed his giant salmon. Piersoll, recalling that the anecdotist had killed other salmon in his time, made a hasty adieu and went to his hostess, who lingered in the drawing room with the younger men. Teevan, before the fire, breathed in smoke, emitted it from pursed lips, studied the ash at the end of his cigarette from under raised, speculative brows, and flashed search-light eyes upon his host. "Who's the young chap, Chris?" Bartell took up a liqueur glass and turned to his questioner. "Name's Ewing, I believe. Some chap Eleanor picked up in the far West. Painter, I believe, or means to be." "Painter, yes, to be sure--quite right; painter...." He waited pointedly. "Paints cowboys and Indians, I fancy--the usual thing. Seems a decent sort; rather a gentleman. You're looking a bit off. Randy." "Am I, though? Queer! Never felt fitter. Walked to Fifty-ninth Street and back to-day. Might have overdone a bit. That chap staying in town long?" "Have to ask Eleanor. It's her affair. By Jove, old boy, you _are_ a wonder. I wish I could keep it off around here the way you do." The little man drew himself up, expanded his chest, and bravely flourished a smile of acknowledgment. This faded into a look of hostile curiosity, discreetly veiled, as Mrs. Laithe and the two young men came in from the drawing room. "Time to be moving on, Governor," young Teevan remarked. "I'm not going, my boy," the little man answered in crisp tones, with the hint of a side look at Ewing and Mrs. Laithe. "Run on like a good chap and make my excuses to the dear grandmother. Needn't lie, you know. Say I chucked her theater party at the last moment because the places are stuffy. Say that I loathe plush and those crumpy little boxes where one sees nothing but the gas fellow in a gingham jumper yawning in the wings. Say I'm whimsical, capricious, fickle as April zephyrs--in all but my love for her. If you're quite honest she'll disbelieve you and guess that I'd a reason for stopping away. Run, like a good lad, while I quench a craving for tales of adventure from the most charming of her sex and from our young friend here--will you pardon my oversight--Ewing?--Ah, to be sure, from Mr. Ewing---Ewing. I must remember that. I'm a silly ass about names." But when his son had gone the little man appeared to forget the craving that had prompted his stay. From his stand on the hearth rug he jauntily usurped the talk, winging his way down the world stream of gossip from capital to capital. Circuitous, indeed, was his approach to art; an anecdote of studio life in Paris; a criticism of Rodin, "Whitman in marble;" the vigor of our native art impulse, only now learning to withdraw a slavish deference from the French schools. "And you--Mr.--Ah, yes--Ewing, to be sure--our amiable and rotund host tells me that you are to be a warrior in this fray of brush and chisel. Bravo! You shall show me work."