as a mere decorative accessory of architecture.  But it had grown in his respect till he maintained that the accessory business ought to be all the other way:  that temples should be raised to enshrine statues, not statues made to ornament temples; that was putting the cart before the horse with a vengeance.  This was when he had carried a plastic study so far that the sculptors who saw it said that Beaton might have been an architect, but would certainly never be a sculptor.  At the same time he did some hurried, nervous things that had a popular charm, and that sold in plaster reproductions, to the profit of another.  Beaton justly despised the popular charm in these, as well as in the paintings he sold from time to time; he said it was flat burglary to have taken money for them, and he would have been living almost wholly upon the bounty of the old tombstone-cutter in Syracuse if it had not been for the syndicate letters which he supplied to Fulkerson for ten dollars a week.

They were very well done, but he hated doing them after the first two or three, and had to be punched up for them by Fulkerson, who did not cease to prize them, and who never failed to punch him up.  Beaton being what he was, Fulkerson was his creditor as well as patron; and Fulkerson being what he was, had an enthusiastic patience with the elusive, facile, adaptable, unpractical nature of Beaton.  He was very proud of his art-letters, as he called them; but then Fulkerson was proud of everything he secured for his syndicate.  The fact that he had secured it gave it value; he felt as if he had written it himself.

One art trod upon another’s heels with Beaton.  The day before he had rushed upon canvas the conception of a picture which he said to himself was glorious, and to others (at the table d’hote of Maroni) was not bad.  He had worked at it in a fury till the light failed him, and he execrated the dying day.  But he lit his lamp and transferred the process of his thinking from the canvas to the opening of the syndicate letter which he knew Fulkerson would be coming for in the morning.  He remained talking so long after dinner in the same strain as he had painted and written in that he could not finish his letter that night.  The next morning, while he was making his tea for breakfast, the postman brought him a letter from his father enclosing a little check, and begging him with tender, almost deferential, urgence to come as lightly upon him as possible, for just now his expenses were very heavy.  It brought tears of shame into Beaton’s eyes—­the fine, smouldering, floating eyes that many ladies admired, under the thick bang—­and he said to himself that if he were half a man he would go home and go to work cutting gravestones in his father’s shop.  But he would wait, at least, to finish his picture; and as a sop to his conscience, to stay its immediate ravening, he resolved to finish that syndicate letter first, and borrow enough money from Fulkerson