From a Bench in Our Square | Page 4

Lassie removed a small, sharp implement from the left eye
of a stoical figurine and pointed it at herself.
"Do you think that's fair?" demanded the indignant youth.
The Bonnie Lassie reversed the implement and pointed it at him. "Do
you or do you not," she challenged, "invade our humble precincts in a
five-thousand-dollar automobile?"
"It's my only extravagance."
"Do you or do you not maintain a luxurious apartment in Gramercy
Park, when you are not down here posing in your attic as an honest
working-man?"
"Oh, see here, Mrs. Staten, I won't stand for that!" he expostulated.
"You know perfectly well I keep my room here because it's the only
place I can work in quietly--"

"And because Peter Quick Banta would break his foolish old heart if
you left him entirely," supplemented the sculptress.
Julien flushed and stood looking like an awkward child. "Did you tell
all this stuff to Miss Holland?" he asked.
"Oh, no! She thinks that your pot-boiling is a desperate and barely
sufficient expedient to keep the wolf from the door. So she is planning
to help you realize your destiny."
"Which is?" he queried with lifted brows.
"To be a great painter."
The other winced. "As you know, I've meant all along, as soon as I've
saved enough--"
"Oh, yes; I know," broke in the Bonnie Lassie, who can be quite
ruthless where Art is concerned, "and you know; but time flies and hell
is paved with good intentions, and if you want to be that kind of a
pavement artist--well, I think Peter Quick Banta is a better."
"Do you suppose she'd let me paint her?" he asked abruptly.
If statuettes could blink, the one upon which the Bonnie Lassie was
busied would certainly have shrouded its vision against the dazzling
radiance of her smile, for this was coming about as she had planned it
from the moment when she had caught the flash of startled surprise and
wonder in his eyes, as they first rested on Bobbie Holland. Here, she
had guessed, might be the agency to bring Julien Tenney to his artistic
senses; and even so it was now working out. But all she said was--and
she said it with a sort of venomous blandness--"My dear boy, you can't
paint."
"Can't I! Just because I'm a little out of practice--"
"Two years, isn't it, since you've touched a palette?"
"Give me a chance at such a model as she is! That's all I ask."

"Do you think her so pretty?" inquired the sculptress disparagingly.
"Pretty? She's the loveliest thing that--" Catching his hostess's smile he
broke off. "You'll admit it's a well-modeled face," he said
professionally; "and--and--well, unusual."
"Pooh! 'Dangerous' is the word. Remember it," warned the Bonnie
Lassie. "She's a devastating whirlwind, that child, and she comes down
here partly to get away from the wreckage. Now, if you play your part
cleverly--"
"I'm not going to play any part."
"Then it's all up. How is a patroness of Art going to patronize you,
unless you're a poor and struggling young artist, living from hand to
mouth by arduous pot-boiling? You won't have to play a part as far as
the pot-boiling goes," added his monitress viciously. "Only, don't let
her know that the rewards of your shame run to high-powered cars and
high-class apartments. Remember, you're poor but honest. Perhaps
she'll give you money."
"Perhaps she won't," retorted the youth explosively.
"Oh, it will be done tactfully; never fear. I'll bring her around to see
you and you'll have to work the sittings yourself."
As a setting for the abode of a struggling beginner, Julien's attic needed
no change. It was a whim of his to keep it bare and simple. He worked
out his pictorial schemes of elegance best in an environment where
there was nothing to distract the eye. One could see that Miss Roberta
Holland, upon her initial visit, approved its stark and cleanly poverty.
(Yes, I was there to see; the Bonnie Lassie had taken me along to make
up that first party.) Having done the honors, Julien dropped into the
background, and presently was curled up over a drawing-board,
sketching eagerly while the Bonnie Lassie and I held the doer of good
deeds in talk. Now the shrewd and able tribe of advertising managers
do not pay to any but a master-draughtsman the prices which
"J.T."--with an arrow transfixing the initials--gets; and Julien was as

deft and rapid as he was skillful. Soon appreciating what was in
progress, the visitor graciously sat quite still. At the conclusion she
held out her hand for the cardboard.
To be a patroness of Art does not necessarily imply that one is an
adequate critic. Miss Holland contemplated what was a veritable little
gem in black-and-white with cool approbation.
"Quite