to be able to send his father’s check back; or, if not that, then to return the sum of it partly in Fulkerson’s check.  While he still teemed with both of these good intentions the old man from whom he was modelling his head of Judas came, and Beaton saw that he must get through with him before he finished either the picture or the letter; he would have to pay him for the time, anyway.  He utilized the remorse with which he was tingling to give his Judas an expression which he found novel in the treatment of that character—­a look of such touching, appealing self-abhorrence that Beaton’s artistic joy in it amounted to rapture; between the breathless moments when he worked in dead silence for an effect that was trying to escape him, he sang and whistled fragments of comic opera.

In one of the hushes there came a blow on the outside of the door that made Beaton jump, and swear with a modified profanity that merged itself in apostrophic prayer.  He knew it must be Fulkerson, and after roaring “Come in!” he said to the model, “That ’ll do this morning, Lindau.”

Fulkerson squared his feet in front of the bust and compared it by fleeting glances with the old man as he got stiffly up and suffered Beaton to help him on with his thin, shabby overcoat.

“Can you come to-morrow, Lindau?”

“No, not to-morrow, Mr. Peaton.  I haf to zit for the young ladties.”

“Oh!” said Beaton.  “Wet-more’s class?  Is Miss Leighton doing you?”

“I don’t know their namess,” Lindau began, when Fulkerson said: 

“Hope you haven’t forgotten mine, Mr. Lindau?  I met you with Mr. March at Maroni’s one night.”  Fulkerson offered him a universally shakable hand.

“Oh yes!  I am gladt to zee you again, Mr. Vulkerson.  And Mr. Marge—­he don’t zeem to gome any more?”

“Up to his eyes in work.  Been moving on from Boston and getting settled, and starting in on our enterprise.  Beaton here hasn’t got a very flattering likeness of you, hey?  Well, good-morning,” he said, for Lindau appeared not to have heard him and was escaping with a bow through the door.

Beaton lit a cigarette which he pinched nervously between his lips before he spoke.  “You’ve come for that letter, I suppose, Fulkerson?  It isn’t done.”

Fulkerson turned from staring at the bust to which he had mounted.  “What you fretting about that letter for?  I don’t want your letter.”

Beaton stopped biting his cigarette and looked at him.  “Don’t want my letter?  Oh, very good!” he bristled up.  He took his cigarette from his lips, and blew the smoke through his nostrils, and then looked at Fulkerson.

“No; I don’t want your letter; I want you.”