Joyce rose hastily, or rather stumbled to his feet, as the doctor and Oakley entered the room. “I told you I was coming up, doctor,” he said, apologetically. “Miss Constance has been very kind. She has been telling me of the galleries and studios. What a glorious experience!” A cynical smile parted Ryder's thin lips. “Mr. Joyce feels the isolation of his art here.” The little man blinked doubtfully at the speaker, and then said, with a gentle, deprecatory gesture, “I don't call it art.” “You are far too modest. I have heard my foreman speak in the most complimentary terms of the portrait you did of his wife. He was especially pleased with the frame. You must know. Miss Constance, that Mr. Joyce usually furnishes the frames, and his pictures go home ready to the wire to hang on the wall.” Mr. Joyce continued to blink doubtfully at Ryder. He scarcely knew how to take the allusion to the frames. It was a sore point with him. Constance turned with a displeased air from Ryder to the little artist. There was a faint, wistful smile on her lips. He was a rather pathetic figure to her, and she could not understand how Ryder dared or had the heart to make fun. “I shall enjoy seeing all that you have done, Mr. Joyce; and of course I wish to see Ruth. Why didn't she come with you to-night?” “Her cousin, Lou Bentick's wife, is dead, and she has been over at his house all day. She was quite worn out, but she sent you her love.” Ryder glanced again at Miss Emory, and said, with hard cynicism: “The notice will appear in Saturday's _Herald_, with a tribute from her pastor. I never refuse his verse. It invariably contains some scathing comment on the uncertainty of the Baptist faith as a means of salvation.” But this was wasted on Joyce. Ryder rose with a sigh. “Well, we toilers must think of the morrow.” Oakley accepted this as a sign that it was time to go. Joyce, too, stumbled across the room to the door, and the three men took their leave together. As they stood on the steps, the doctor said, cordially, “I hope you will both come again soon; and you, too, Turner,” he added, kindly. Ryder moved off quickly with Oakley. Joyce would have dropped behind, but the latter made room for him at his side. No one spoke until Ryder, halting on a street corner, said, “Sorry, but it's out of my way to go any farther unless you'll play a game of billiards with me at the hotel, Oakley.” “Thanks,” curtly. “I don't play billiards.” “No? Well, they are a waste of time, I suppose. Good-night.” And he turned down the side street, whistling softly. “A very extraordinary young man,” murmured Joyce, rubbing the tip of his nose meditatively with a painty forefinger. “And with quite an extraordinary opinion of himself.” A sudden feeling of friendliness prompted Oakley to tuck his hand through the little artist's arm. “How is Bentick bearing the loss of his wife?” he asked. “You said she was your cousin.”