"Well, I started to study when I was very poor, you understand. Look here! I'm telling you these things because I want you to know, somehow. It isn't that I'm not ashamed of it. Well, I began very poor, and I--as a matter of fact--I--well, I earned myself over half the money for my studying, and the other half I bullied and badgered and beat out of my poor old dad. I worked pretty hard in Paris, and I returned here expecting to become a great painter at once. I didn't, though. In fact, I had my worst moments then. It lasted for some years. Of course, the faith and endurance of my father were by this time worn to a shadow--this time, when I needed him the most. However, things got a little better and a little better, until I found that by working quite hard I could make what was to me a fair income. That's where I am now, too." "Why are you so ashamed of this story?" "The poverty." "Poverty isn't anything to be ashamed of." "Great heavens! Have you the temerity to get off that old nonsensical remark? Poverty is everything to be ashamed of. Did you ever see a person not ashamed of his poverty? Certainly not. Of course, when a man gets very rich he will brag so loudly of the poverty of his youth that one would never suppose that he was once ashamed of it. But he was." "Well, anyhow, you shouldn't be ashamed of the story you have just told me." "Why not? Do you refuse to allow me the great right of being like other men?" "I think it was--brave, you know." "Brave? Nonsense! Those things are not brave. Impression to that effect created by the men who have been through the mill for the greater glory of the men who have been through the mill." "I don't like to hear you talk that way. It sounds wicked, you know." "Well, it certainly wasn't heroic. I can remember distinctly that there was not one heroic moment." "No, but it was--it was----" "It was what?" "Well, somehow I like it, you know." CHAPTER XXX. "There's three of them," said Grief in a hoarse whisper. "Four, I tell you!" said Wrinkles in a low, excited tone. "Four," breathed Pennoyer with decision. They held fierce pantomimic argument. From the corridor came sounds of rustling dresses and rapid feminine conversation. Grief had kept his ear to the panel of the door. His hand was stretched back, warning the others to silence. Presently he turned his head and whispered, "Three." "Four," whispered Pennoyer and Wrinkles.