In spite of his over-heaviness of outline he was not an uninteresting figure as he sat there.  His face had not taken on superfluous flesh as his body had acquired weight, and its lines were good to the eye of the artist.  His eye was clear, his smile full and not lacking in a certain winning quality which spoke of sympathy and understanding.  One who had never before seen him would not doubt that here was a man worth acquaintance, in spite of the fact that his only labour was in the pursuit of a fancy rather than in the making of a living.

The hour came for his reluctant departure.  Standing on Charlotte’s shaky little porch he looked up at her as she stood on the threshold above him.  Against the light in the room behind her the outlines of her lithe young figure were to him adorable.  He took her hand and held it for a minute with a strong pressure which spoke for him of his longing to keep it in his permanent possession.

“Will you send me off with the assurance that at least my friendship is still something to you?” he asked her.  “You can be as independent as you like, but you need friends.  Or, if that has small weight with you, let me appeal to your generosity.  I need your friendship even more than you need mine.”

“Unhappy Mr. Brant.”  She was smiling.  “So few friends, so few pleasures, he needs poor Charlotte Ruston’s support!”

“Poor Charlotte Ruston is a greater inspiration to Eugene Brant’s good work than any dozen of his fashionable patrons.”

“I am honoured—­truly.  And, of course, we are friends, the best of friends.  I will send you the print soon.  Thank you for coming.  You have helped me very much.”

With which he was obliged to be content.

CHAPTER XVI

IN FEBRUARY

One cold December morning Charlotte Ruston, sweeping up her hearth after making her fire for the day, preparatory to bringing little Madam Chase downstairs, heard the knock upon her door which heralded Mrs. Redfield Pepper Burns.  It was a peculiar knock, reminiscent of the days at boarding-school when certain signals conveyed deep meaning.  This particular triple tattoo meant “I have something to tell you.”

Charlotte opened the door, smiling at sight of her friend.  “You are worth looking at, in those beautiful furs, with the frost on your cheeks,” she said, drawing Ellen in to the fire, and passing a caressing hand over the rich softness of her sleeve.  “Furry hat and furry gloves—­and furry boots, too, probably—­let me see?  I thought so,” as she examined Ellen’s footgear.  “You could start on a trip to Greenland, this minute, and not freeze so much as the tip of your nose, behind that wonderful muff.”

“It will be Greenland on the Atlantic liner next week,” said Ellen, drawing off the enveloping coat at Charlotte’s motion, and seating herself in Granny’s winged chair.  “The trip to Germany is on foot, at last.  Red has had to put it off so many times I began to think we shouldn’t get away this year at all.  But he’s taken our passage now, and vows that nothing shall hinder.  So I’m packing in rather a hurry, for we mean to be off on Saturday, though we shall not sail until Tuesday.  One can always use a day or two in New York.”