“I should like to hear you, Dick,” said Rainham lazily.  “Fire away!  But who is Mrs. Grumbit?”

“Oh, she’s our housekeeper—­the lady who dusts the studio, you know, and gives the models tea and good advice.  She’s very particular as to the models:  she won’t let us paint from any who don’t come up to her standard of propriety.  And the worst of it is that the properest girls are always the ugliest.  I don’t know——­”

“Before you proceed with this highly original disquisition,” interrupted Copal, “I think you ought to be warned that we have recently formed a Society for the Protection of Reputations, models’ and actresses’ in particular.  It was McAllister’s idea.  You now have the honour of being in the headquarters, the committee-room of the society, and anything like slander, or even truth, will be made an example of.”

“Don’t you find it rather difficult to spread your sheltering wings over what doesn’t exist?” hazarded Lightmark amusedly.

“Ah, I knew you would say that!  You see, that’s just where we come in.  We talk about their morals and reputations until they begin to imagine they have some, and they unconsciously get induced to live up to them.  See?  It’s rather mixed, but it works beautifully.  Ask the vice-president!  Rainham holds that proud office.  I may remark that I am treasurer, and the subscription is half a guinea, which goes towards the expenses of providing light refreshments for the,—­the beneficiaries.”

“This is really very interesting!  Rainham vice-president, too!  I thought he looked rather—­rather worn by the cares of the office.  You must make me a member at once.  But who’s president?”

“President?  Who is president, McAllister?  I really forget.  You see, whenever the president is caught speaking too candidly of any of our clients’ characters, we pass a vote of censure, and depose him, and he has to stand drinks.  The competition isn’t so keen as it used to be.  If you would like to stand—­for the office, I mean—­I dare say there will be an opening soon....  Well, I must be off:  I’m afraid of Mrs. Grumbit, and—­yes, by Jove!—­I’ve forgotten my latchkey again!  Of course you’re not coming yet, Dick?  Come and breakfast with me to-morrow.  Good-night, you fellows!”

“Copal has been in great form to-night,” said Lightmark, after the door had closed on him, getting up and stretching himself.  “What does it mean?  Joy at my return?  Fatted calf?”

“No doubt, my boy, no doubt,” growled McAllister humorously, on his way to the door.  “But you must bear in mind, too, the circumstance that the laddie’s just sold a picture.”

“Good business!” ejaculated Lightmark, as he reflected to himself that perhaps that despaired-of fiver would be repaid after all.

About midnight most of the men left.  Rainham remained, and Lightmark, who professed himself too lazy to move.  Rainham lapsed into his familiar state of half-abstraction, while his friend cross-examined a young sculptor fresh from Rome.