"Come in, old man," he said, cordially extending his hand to the reporter; "you are welcome at any hour of the day or night. What is it now? This is not your digestion call, I presume." "No," replied Sturgis, "I merely dropped in to say that I should be unable to take our projected bicycle trip this afternoon, I shall probably be busy with the Knickerbocker bank case all day. By the way, if you would like to come to the bank with me, I shall be glad of your company. I am on my way there now." "I should like nothing better," said Sprague, "but I have made an appointment for this morning with a----er----er----with a sitter." "What, on New Year's day, you heathen!" Sturgis observed the artist closely, and then added quizzically: "Accept my congratulations, old man." "Your congratulations?" inquired Sprague, coloring slightly. "Yes; my congratulations and my condolence. My congratulations on the fact that she is young and beautiful, and possessed of all those qualities of mind and heart which----and so on and so forth. My condolence because I fear you are hit, at last." "What do you mean?" stammered the artist sheepishly; "do you know her? What do you know about her?" "Nothing whatever," replied Sturgis laughing, "except what you are telling me by your hesitations, your reticence and your confusion." The artist spoke after a moment of thoughtful silence: "Your inductions in this case are premature, to say the least. My sitter is a young lady, so much is undeniably true. And there is no doubt in my mind as to her possession of all the qualities you jocularly attribute to her; but my interest in her is only that of the artist in a beautiful and charming woman. "At any rate," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "I hope so; for I have heard that she is as good as betrothed to another man." The reporter's keen ear detected in his friend's tones a touch of genuine sadness of which the artist himself was probably unconscious. Laying his hand gently upon Sprague's shoulder, he said gravely: "I hope so too, old man; for you are one of those foolish men whose lives can be ruined by an unhappy love affair. I suppose it is useless to preach to you;--more's the pity--but, in my humble opinion, no woman's love is worth the sacrifice of a good man's life." "Yes, I know your opinion on that subject, you old cynic," replied Sprague, "but you need not worry on my account; not yet, at all events. I am still safe; the portrait is almost finished; and I should be a fool to walk into such a scrape with my eyes wide open." "Humph!" ejaculated Sturgis skeptically, "when a man makes a fool of himself for a woman, it matters little whether his eyes be open or shut; the result is the same." Sprague laughed somewhat uneasily; and then, as if to change the subject: "Come and see the picture," he said. "I should like your opinion of it." The reporter consulted his watch.