One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertons lived, he dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few people escape that nowadays. But he was also an artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally he was a strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and a red ragged beard. However, when he took up the brush he was a real master, and his pictures were eagerly sought after. He had been very much attracted by Hughie at first, it must be acknowledged, entirely on account of his personal charm. ‘The only people a painter should know,’ he used to say, ‘are people who are _bête_ and beautiful, people who are an artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual repose to talk to. Men who are dandies and women who are darlings rule the world, at least they should do so.’ However, after he got to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his bright, buoyant spirits and his generous, reckless nature, and had given him the permanent _entrée_ to his studio. When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar himself was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He was a wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and a most piteous expression. Over his shoulders was flung a coarse brown cloak, all tears and tatters; his thick boots were patched and cobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms. ‘What an amazing model!’ whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend. ‘An amazing model?’ shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; ‘I should think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with every day. A _trouvaille_, _mon cher_; a living Velasquez! My stars! what an etching Rembrandt would have made of him!’ ‘Poor old chap!’ said Hughie, ‘how miserable he looks! But I suppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?’ ‘Certainly,’ replied Trevor, ‘you don’t want a beggar to look happy, do you?’ ‘How much does a model get for sitting?’ asked Hughie, as he found himself a comfortable seat on a divan. ‘A shilling an hour.’ ‘And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?’ ‘Oh, for this I get two thousand!’ ‘Pounds?’ ‘Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas.’ ‘Well, I think the model should have a percentage,’ cried Hughie, laughing; ‘they work quite as hard as you do.’ ‘Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on the paint alone, and standing all day long at one’s easel! It’s all very well, Hughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that there are moments when Art almost attains to the dignity of manual labour. But you mustn’t chatter; I’m very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.’ After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the framemaker wanted to speak to him.