I WAS helping Menna that day. He had been very busy, and I had been working for him both mornings and afternoons. He had told me, however, that soon he expected to “pick up and go West,” and I was troubled about that. I depended upon Menna for most of my work, and we got along splendidly together. As I have said, Menna had always treated me just like a “fellow” as he would call it.

There was a knock at the door, and in came Paul Bonnat. After nodding to Menna, he strolled over to where I was working and stood at the back of me, watching me paint.

“She’s quite a painter,” he said after a moment to Menna, who looked up and nodded, and said:

“Yes, she does quite O. K.”

After a while Menna turned around on his stool and asked:

“Got anything on to-night, Bonnat?”

“No—nothing particular.”

“Well, a lady friend of mine is coming in from Staten Island, and I promised to take her somewhere to supper and see the town. Can’t you and Miss Ascough join us?”

Bonnat beamed, just as if Menna had handed him a gift, and he said:

“Sure, if Miss Ascough will go with me.”

I said that I would. I think I would have gone with him anywhere he asked me to.

“Meet us here at seven, then,” said Menna, returning to his work.

“All right. Good-bye.” Bonnat went out, slamming the door noisily behind him. We could hear him singing the “Preislied” from “Meistersinger” as he went up the stairs. He had a big, wonderful baritone voice. We stopped painting to listen to him, but when I turned to resume my work, I found Menna watching me. He said:

“You and Bonnat are getting pretty friendly, eh?”

I felt myself color warmly, but I tried to laugh, and said:

“Oh, no more than I am with any of the other boys.”

Menna had his thumb through his palette, and he stared at me hard. Then he said suddenly:

“Gee! What a fool I was to let him get ahead of me.”

He set down his palette, and came over to my stool:

“Say, Marion” (he had never called me Marion

before), “you and I would make a corking good team. Suppose we pair off together to-night, and we’ll put Miss Fleming on to Bonnat? What do you say?”

“Mr. Menna, you had better stick to your own girl,” I said, feeling uneasy. Menna continued to stare down at me and as he said nothing to that, I added:

“You know you and I are just partners in our work, and don’t let’s fool. It’ll spoil everything.”

“Oh, all right,” said he, “I don’t have to get down on my knees to you or any other girl.”

He had never spoken to me like that before. Until this day, he had never asked me to go anywhere with him, nor tried to see me after work hours, and I did not suppose he was the least bit interested in me, and I supposed he was quite settled with his own sweetheart. I was so glad when Miss Fleming knocked on the door.

That evening we all went to Shefftel Hall. It was one of the oldest places in New York, and was interesting because of the class of people who patronized the place and its resemblance to the German gardens, which it was in fact itself. There were German ornaments and steins all around the place on a high shelf. There was an excellent orchestra which played good selections and Bonnat hummed when they played some of his favorites. Menna and Bonnat seemed to differ on almost every subject, and Menna seemed in a savagely contrary mood that night.

Bonnat would explain his point of view about something, and Menna would say irritably:

“Yes, yes, but what’s the use?”

Bonnat said that a man should show in his work the human mood, and that a picture should mean something more than a pretty melody of colors. Menna interrupted him with:

“What’s the use, as long as we get good Pilsener beer?”

Paul laughed at that, and called to a waiter to bring some more Pilsener for Menna right away. After the dinner was over, Mr. Menna took Miss Fleming home, and Paul and I walked up Fourteenth Street, stopping to look in the windows, and to glance at the curious people in the throngs that passed us. Fourteenth Street was then a very gay and bedizened place at night.

When we reached my door, Paul, who had been very silent, took my hand and held it for some time, without saying a word. I could feel his eyes looking down on me in the darkness of the street, and somehow the very clasp of his hand seemed to be speaking to me, telling me things that made me feel warm, and, oh! so happy. When he did speak at last, his big voice was curiously repressed, and he said huskily:

“I think I know now why some men give up art for the sake of protecting their own!” He said “own” with such strange emphasis, pressing my hand as he said it, that I felt too moved to answer him, and I had a great longing to put my arms around him and draw his head down to mine.

After that night Mr. Menna did not seem the same to me. All the little kindnesses I had been accustomed to receive from him, such as cleaning my palette, my brushes, and nailing my canvases on the stretchers, he now let me do myself, and once when I asked him to varnish a painting of mine, he answered:

“Why don’t you get that Bonnat to do it for you?”