“Moral or unmoral, but not—” Breen started and waited for Nielsen to supply the last word.

Nielsen, who understood, shook his head and corrected: “Moral or unmoral—no more,” and smiled confidently.

Carstairs looked from Nielsen to Breen and continued staring at the table.

“How do you account then for the recrudescence of our young gladiator?” Breen went on.

“And what has that to do with Erna’s life, present or future?” Nielsen argued amiably.

“If he’s calling again?”

“Let him call! Does that necessarily affect Erna’s conduct?”

“But hasn’t it affected her conduct? Didn’t you notice it as we came in?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

Nielsen wore a thoughtful frown, but smiled mischievously and declared: “There was nothing immoral, as far as I could make out.”

Breen was gracious enough to agree: “Perhaps not.” They were silent. Carstairs watched them gloomily and then returned to his occupation. Erna came in, affecting a matter-of-fact air.

Breen and Nielsen pressed her with playful greetings and compliments. She accepted them as part of the tribute due her each day, but her stereotyped expression disappeared, and she was ready to take up her duties as gracious empress. Even her pugnacious nose appeared less pugnacious. Having recognized the young men’s tribute by a favor or two, she criticized genially: “You’re late this morning.”

“Nielsen overslept himself,” Breen explained.

“Don’t you believe him—he overslept himself,” Nielsen retorted.

Erna was leaning against their table, her arms akimbo. The pair received a glance each, as was their due, and then she studied Carstairs. “Maybe it was you, Mr. Carstairs?”

He looked up. “Me?”

“Yes—maybe it was you that overslept yourself.”

Carstairs blushed, his friends laughed, and he denied with a return of good nature: “No. They were the ones.”

“He’s not awake yet, Erna,” Breen fought back.

“He doesn’t look it,” she seconded.

The young composer blushed again, but did not defend himself this time. Nielsen eyed him with friendly concern.

“Your orders, gentlemen.”

“What’s your hurry?” Breen complained.

“You don’t suppose I can stand here all day,” she reminded him.

“But I want to admire you a little,” he protested. “Who wants to eat in the presence of a—of a—Why, look at the beautiful red ribbon! Is it a new one, Erna?”

“Yes,” and instantly, Erna, always susceptible to praise or flattery, raised her hands to arrange the ribbon.

“It matches your hair to perfection,” Breen pursued. “You love color, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Red the most?”

“Sure.”

“Blood, blood red?”

“Yes.”

“My favorite color, too!”

“That’ll do,” Nielsen interposed. “Don’t steal all the crumbs, Breen.”

Erna laughed.

“But they belong to me,” Breen defended himself. “Color is my line. Red is my color too.” “These grasping conceited painters!” Nielsen grumbled.

“No,” Erna interceded. “If he likes red, he likes red.”

“’A second Daniel’,” quoted Breen. “I thank thee, gracious Lady. Thou and I are of one mind and desire. By the way, Erna! Did you ever wear all red?”

“No—oh, yes, two or three years ago.”

“You did? Have you still got the dress?”

“Oh, I’ve outgrown it. I’m—I’m stouter now,” and she expanded her chest and laughed again.

“But you must find it,” he continued with growing interest. “You could easily alter it to fit, couldn’t you? I want you to pose for me. You know you’ve promised me several times. Wouldn’t you like to? All in red: red ribbon, red waist, and skirt and even red slippers, but best of all, red cheeks and red lips!”

Erna’s pleasure-loving scent was aroused.

“Will you, Erna?”

“Sure!”

“When?”

“Oh, not to-day.”

“When then?”

“Not to-morrow.”

“Oh, pshaw—when then?”

“My first afternoon off?” “Fine! When will that be?”

“Next Monday.”

“Good! And you’ll be ready?”

“Yes, if you really want me to. But I won’t be able—”

“That’s all right,” he interrupted. “Come anyhow! You’ll be immense just the same. You will create—”

“Pooh, pooh, and likewise tut, tut!” Nielsen broke in. “When are we to hear an end to this?”

“He’s jealous,” said Erna.

“Of course,” Nielsen admitted. “To the painter go all the spoils. No one ever poses for a writer. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Why?” she challenged.

Nielsen got up in a hurry. “What?” he demanded in mock seriousness.

“Order, order!” she said roguishly and looked away.

“But—”

“Order, order!” Breen echoed. “The lady is right. We must have order. Besides, we haven’t ordered.”

Nielsen fell back with a philosophic sigh. “All is unfair when bad puns make their appearance.”

It did not take the young men long to make their choice of breakfast. Erna went away. “Come back soon!” pleaded Breen.

“In a wink,” she called back.

Breen started drumming on the table; Nielsen looked across at him and hummed a pleasant tune. “You’re a clever individual,” he observed.

“Why?”

“You’re not going to have her pose, old Sly Fox.”

“Certainly not, thou reader of souls.”

“I thought not.”

“But I’m only carrying out our program of last night. You seem to have forgotten it.”

“No.”

“Then why criticize me for being the first one on the job? It’ll be up to you and Carstairs too.”

“I know,” Nielsen agreed jovially.

“Count me out!” Carstairs interrupted suddenly.

“The sleeper’s awake,” Breen applauded. “He’s back from the land of dreams. What news from Arcadia, Colonel?”

“You can count me out,” Carstairs repeated stubbornly, and would not look at his friends.

“Why, what’s the matter?” Nielsen interposed sympathetically, and raised his hand to forewarn Breen.

“Nothing.”

“Breen’s only been fooling all along!”

“I know.” “Then you’re not angry with him, or me?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the trouble?”

“I don’t like it—I hate it,” the young composer went on with difficulty.

“What don’t you like?”

“This business!”

“What, this business of testing Erna?” Nielsen asked gently, and studied him. “John!” The latter refused to look at him. “It’s all in fun. I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement? We are each to study Erna in our own way, then to compare notes to learn whether—You don’t have to use Breen’s method. I don’t intend to. You don’t have to either.”

“I know.”

“Then there ought to be no complaint.”

“Count me out anyhow.”

“Why?”

Breen wanted to poke into the argument, but Nielsen raised his hand again.

“She’s not a waitress or a—or a working woman—or a table or a chair,” Carstairs said with obvious difficulty.

Nielsen understood. He squeezed his neighbor’s arm and declared with his most soothing tone: “She’s a woman, of course—as we concluded last night. Breen and I know that. You feel that we do, don’t you?”

Carstairs, who was in his most sentimental mood, seemed on the verge of tears. “Yes,” he managed to agree.

Nielsen broke off the subject at once. “Well, we’ll talk over the whole business some other time. You’re not feeling well this morning. It must be your work at that confounded moving picture hole.”

“Yes,” Carstairs said doubtfully.

“Cheer up!” Breen succeeded in interpolating. “Forget your troubles in the music world and listen to that concert over there. That duet recital, I should say.”

Carstairs smiled.

“Tristan and Isolde are being undone,” Nielsen added, catching Breen’s cue. “Or Salome and Jokannan, eh? Away with Wagner and Strauss: Richard the First and Second—what do you say, John?”

“Yes.”

The two milkmen, who were sleeping more soundly than ever, appreciated their listeners’ applause. They were indulging in a crescendo.

“Silence and listen!” Breen warned so solemnly that Nielsen, and even Carstairs, laughed.

Breen and Nielsen exchanged nods. They had accomplished their object. Erna came back with their orders.

“What music have we here?” Breen hailed her.

She set their orders on the table, and arranged their plates, knives, forks and spoons. “What did you say?”

“What music is this emanating from yon Orpheus and his Eurydice?”

“Must be some ragtime,” she suggested.

Breen feigned disappointment.

“It all depends upon one’s taste, you see,” Nielsen interpreted for him.

And Carstairs laughed again.

Erna eyed him. “Why, he’s awake,” she said.

“Yes,” Breen and Nielsen assured her.

Carstairs raised his head and met her glance for an instant, and the sudden warmth he felt brought color to his face. He looked elsewhere, but it was plainly evident that he was feeling better.

“You’re sure you’re awake now?” she questioned wantonly.

“Yes, thanks,” he responded gratefully.

The young men started eating. Erna attended to her remaining duties with them and then went over to another table and sat down. Presently, she was occupied folding paper napkins. Breen, with Nielsen’s assistance, opened a discussion on the newest fad of French painting, examples of which were being exhibited at a Fifth Avenue gallery.

Carstairs stole cautious glances at Erna. Once or twice, she raised her eyes and caught his glance in hers. Both looked away in embarrassment. This performance was repeated several times. There seemed to be some shy understanding between them.

About a half hour later, the young men arose and put on their hats and coats. Erna came over and gave them their checks. “So long, Erna,” Nielsen parted cordially. “Au midi,” Breen seconded. And the pair made their way up the steps and out of the dining room.

Carstairs had delayed his departure a moment. He approached Erna nervously and in a hurried voice, began: “Is it all right for to-night? You know, you were going to let me know.”

She frowned a little and then returned: “Yes—oh no, I can’t go out with you to-night.”

His face became tragic. She, possessed by one of her soft moods, played the sympathetic: “Will you be off again this week?”

“Yes—Sunday night—from seven to nine,” he explained in an eager whisper.

“Well?” She waited, smiling.

“Will it be all right then?” he asked, his courage rising. “Yes.”

“All right—Sunday—seven o’clock,” he whispered, hurried out—and forgot his check.

She came after him and caught him at the counter, where he had joined his friends.

“You’ve forgotten your check,” she told him, with a bright glance.

“Oh, yes, thanks,” he stammered.

Breen and Nielsen stared at him. The trio passed out into the street.

“Where shall we go?” Breen questioned.

“Let’s bum a while in my room,” Nielsen proposed.

“I can’t,” Carstairs declined.

“Why not, John?”

“I want to work a little,” Carstairs explained.

Breen and Nielsen stared at him again.

Somewhat later, the painter and the writer were comfortably seated in the latter’s comfortable workshop.

“I guess so, but I hope it isn’t true,” Nielsen was saying.

“Oh, he’ll get over it. These attachments of his are never serious nor of long duration. And at best, she’s only a hardened little thing, a fact he’ll realize in good season.” “John was always much slower to learn matters than the rest of us,” Nielsen said dreamily.

“Yes.”

“He’s foolishly sensitive too.”

“And foolishly sentimental,” Breen concluded.

There was a pause.

“And how about your story?” the painter continued.

“By the way, I’m thinking of using Erna as a model for—”

“Want her to pose for you too, old Sly Fox?” Breen demanded in revenge.

“Of course, and incidentally to find out—”

“I know,” Breen interrupted, and the pair laughed in mutual admiration.

In the meanwhile, John Carstairs was busy—working. He was seated at the small upright piano, which monopolized a good part of the space in his small studio. About an hour later, he had finished improvising and selecting and arranging his material and now placed a large sheet of music paper against the piano rack. The staves were blank at present, but it was certain that the young composer intended covering them as rapidly as possible. First of all, however, he wrote the title of the composition at the head of the page: To Thee.