time he may even become perfectly indifferent to the weather in his world--that is, to the public. And if he can believe that he is doing a good work, and if he can keep inside his own world, he will probably be happy.” “But if he goes beyond it?” asked Katharine. “He will probably be killed--body or soul, or both,” said Griggs, with a queer change of tone. “It seems to me, that you exclude women altogether from your paradise,” observed Mrs. Crowdie, with a laugh. “And amateurs,” said her husband. “It’s to be a professional paradise for men--no admittance except on business. No one who hasn’t had a picture on the line need apply. Special hell for minor poets. Crowns of glory may be had on application at the desk--fit not guaranteed in cases of swelled head--” “Don’t be vulgar, Crowdie,” interrupted Griggs. “Is ‘swelled head’ vulgar, Miss Lauderdale?” enquired the painter. “It sounds like something horrid--mumps, or that sort of thing. What does it mean?” “It means a bad case of conceit. It’s a good New York expression. I wonder you haven’t heard it. Go on about the professional persons, Griggs. I’m not half good enough to chaff you. I wish Frank Miner were here. He’s the literary man in the family.” “Little Frank Miner--the brother of the three Miss Miners?” asked Griggs. “Yes--looks a well-dressed cock sparrow--always in a good humour--don’t you know him?” “Of course I do--the brother of the three Miss Miners,” said Griggs, meditatively. “Does he write? I didn’t know.” Crowdie laughed, and Hester smiled. “Such is fame!” exclaimed Crowdie. “But then, literary men never seem to have heard of each other.” “No,” answered Griggs. “By the bye, Crowdie, have you heard anything of Chang-Li-Ho lately?” “Chang-Li-Ho? Who on earth is he? A Chinese laundryman?” “No,” replied Griggs, unmoved. “He’s the greatest painter in the Chinese Empire. But then, you painters never seem to have heard of one another.” “By Jove! that’s not fair, Griggs! Is he to be in the professional heaven, too?” “I suppose so. There’ll probably be more Chinamen than New Yorkers there. They know a great deal more about art.” “You’re getting deucedly sarcastic, Griggs,” observed Crowdie. “You’d better tell Miss Lauderdale more about the life to come. Your hobby can’t be tired yet, and if you ride him industriously, it will soon be time for luncheon.” “We’d better have it at once if you two are going to quarrel,” suggested Hester, with a laugh. “Oh, we never quarrel,” answered Crowdie. “Besides, I’ve got no soul, Griggs says, and he sold his own to the printer’s devil ages ago--so that the life to come is a perfectly safe subject.” “What do you mean by saying that Walter has no soul?” asked Hester, looking up quickly at Griggs. “My dear lady,” he answered, “please don’t be so terribly angry with me. In the first place, I said it in fun; and secondly, it’s quite true; and thirdly, it’s very lucky for him that he has none.”