Rantoul, however, was not vulnerable on that score.  He was not, it is true, the drag-horse that Herkimer was, who lived like a recluse, shunning the cafes and the dance-halls, eating up the last gray hours of the day over his statues and his clays.  But Rantoul, while living life to its fullest, haunting the wharves and the markets with avid eyes, roaming the woods and trudging the banks of the Seine, mingling in the crowds that flashed under the flare of arc-lights, with a thousand mysteries of mass and movement, never relaxed a moment the savage attack his leaping nature made upon the drudgeries and routine of technic.

With the coveted admittance into the Salon, recognition came speedily to the two chums.  They made a triumphal entry into a real studio in the Montparnasse Quarter, clients came, and the room became a station of honor among the young and enthusiastic of the Quarter.

Rantoul began to appear in society, besieged with the invitations that his Southern aristocracy and the romance of his success procured him.

“You go out too much,” said Herkimer to him, with a fearful growl.  “What the deuce do you want with society, anyhow?  Keep away from it.  You’ve nothing to do with it.”

“What do I do?  I go out once a week,” said Rantoul, whistling pleasantly.

“Once is too often.  What do you want to become, a parlor celebrity?  Society c’est l’ennemie.  You ought to hate it.”

“I do.”

“Humph!” said Herkimer, eying him across his sputtering clay pipe.  “Get this idea of people out of your head.  Shut yourself up in a hole, work.  What’s society, anyhow?  A lot of bored people who want you to amuse them.  I don’t approve.  Better marry that pretty girl in the creamery.  She’ll worship you as a god, make you comfortable.  That’s all you need from the world.”

“Marry her yourself; she’ll sew and cook for you,” said Rantoul, with perfect good humor.

“I’m in no danger,” said Herkimer, curtly; “you are.”

“What!”

“You’ll see.”

“Listen, you old grumbler,” said Rantoul, seriously.  “If I go into society, it is to see the hollowness of it all—­”

“Yes, yes.”

“To know what I rebel against—­”

“Of course.”

“To appreciate the freedom of the life I have—­”

“Faker!”

“To have the benefit of contrasts, light and shade.  You think I am not a rebel.  My dear boy, I am ten times as big a rebel as I was.  Do you know what I’d do with society?”

He began a tirade in the famous muscular Rantoul style, overturning creeds and castes, reorganizing republics and empires, while Herkimer, grumbling to himself, began to scold the model, who sleepily received the brunt of his ill humor.

In the second year of his success Rantoul, quite by accident, met a girl in her teens named Tina Glover, only daughter of Cyrus Glover, a man of millions, self-made.  The first time their eyes met and lingered, by the mysterious chemistry of the passions Rantoul fell desperately in love with this little slip of a girl, who scarcely reached to his shoulder; who, on her part, instantly made up her mind that she had found the husband she intended to have.  Two weeks later they were engaged.