Querida’s eyes were partly closed as though in retrospection.  “Also,” he said, softly, “I painted a very fashionable woman—­for nothing—­and to her entire satisfaction.”

“That’s the real thing, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so....  Make two or three unlovely and unlovable old ladies lovely and lovable—­on canvas—­for nothing.  Then society will let you slap its powdered and painted face—­yes—­permit you—­other liberties—­if only you will paint it and sign your canvases and ask them a wicked price for what you give them and—­for what they yield to you.”

Allaire’s ruddy face grew ruddier; he grinned and passed a muscular hand over his thick, handsome, fox-tinted hair.

“I wish I could get next,” he said with a hard glance at Querida.  “I’d sting ’em.”

“I would be very glad to introduce you to anybody I know,” observed the other.

“Do you mean that?”

“Why not.  A man who has waited as I have for opportunity understands what others feel who are still waiting.”

“That’s damn square of you, Querida.”

“Oh, no, not square; just natural.  The public table is big enough for everybody.”

Allaire thought a moment, slowly caressing his foxy hair.

“After all,” he said with a nervous snicker, “you needn’t be afraid of anybody.  Nobody can paint like you....  But I’d like to get a look in, Querida.  I’ve got to make a little money in one way or another—­” he added impudently—­“and if I can’t paint well enough to sting them, there’s always the chance of marrying one of ’em.”

Querida laughed:  “Any man can always marry any woman.  There’s no trick in getting any wife you want.”

“Sure,” grinned Allaire; “a wife is a cinch; it’s the front row that keeps good men guessing.”  He glanced at Querida, his gray-green eyes brimming with an imprudent malice he could not even now deny himself—­“Also the backs of the magazines keep one guessing,” he added, carelessly; “and I’ve the patience of a tom-cat, myself.”

Querida’s beautifully pencilled eyebrows were raised interrogatively.

“Oh, I’ll admit that the little West girl kept me sitting on back fences until some other fellow threw a bottle at me,” said Allaire with a disagreeable laugh.  He had come as near as he dared to taunting Querida and, afraid at the last moment, had turned the edge of it on himself.

Querida lighted a cigarette and blew a whiff of smoke toward the ceiling.

“I’ve an idea,” he said, lazily, “that somebody is trying to marry her.”

“Forget it,” observed Allaire in contempt.  “She wouldn’t stand for the sort who marry her kind.  She’ll land hard on her neck one of these days, and the one best bet will be some long-faced Botticelli with heavenly principles and the moral stability of a tumbler pigeon.  Then there’ll be hell to pay; but he will get over it and she’ll get aboard the toboggan.  That’s the way it ends, Querida.”