"You are an artist?" she said. "How very charming!" Baffin, who had done very well up to then, became suddenly ponderful again. "I say," he blurted forth, at last, "couldn’t I persuade you to sit for me some time? You are the very thing I have been looking out for. For my angel’s back, you know." *VI* *CONATUS* I accepted Mr. Boag’s invitation and dined with him—at the National Liberal Club. They wine you at this place in a manner which is singularly perfect. I cannot, at this distance of time, state exactly what topics formed the subject of Mr. Boag’s improving conversation; but I can say that, regarded from the standpoint of Meliorism, his dinner was an emphatic success. And when it was quite over I found myself upon the Thames Embankment smiling cheerfully, as was becoming to the happy circumstance of my conversion to Mr. Boag’s cheerful doctrines. And thus it was that I came to take part, unofficially, at another dinner party; a repast _à deux_, with epigrams, and incident, all in the most approved style of romance. The _tête-à-tête_ is consecrated to literature by a thousand charming precedents. I shall certainly offer no apology for submitting this one to your indulgent consideration. They were dining off alabaster—or was it granite?—at the foot of Cleopatra’s Needle; and I remarked particularly the singular blueness of Strephon’s fingers. The glorious revelation, recently vouchsafed to me, of Conative truths, had so warmed my heart, had set up such a tingling within my veins (which were themselves protected from chill by several layers of wool and cambric) that the few degrees of frost prevailing at the moment had not yet become evident to my senses. Strephon, of course, was in another case, being appropriately clad in garments partaking of the nature of gossamer. And he, besides, had not been privileged to receive the truths of Meliorism. Wherefore, he must blow upon his nail, and pinch his scrubby cheek, and utter blasphemies, crying, "Christ, mate, but this wind ain’t ’arf a nipper." And she (the Chlöe of this story: the one whom he addressed as "mate") made answer thus: "Then do as I tell you, an’ drink that up!" "But ’ere, ’old ’ard!" cried Strephon, as she poked a little bottle at his lips—"that’s your share, ain’t it?" "Not be rights," said the woman, blushing a little—or seeming to blush; for she was a battered, sodden thing, and her cheek had lost its quickness. "It ain’t my share, be rights. I—I ’ad a sip at yourn. Besides, I’ve lorst me liking fur that Irish stuff. Give me Scotch!" "This _is_ Scotch, ain’t it?" said the man. "It is, bad luck to it," replied the woman quickly. "I’ve lost me likin’ fur it, I tell you. Give me Irish!" "Oh!" said the man, and he swallowed her share.