They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted.  So is every—­but I will not be cynical.  Their aims were very clear and defined.  Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying.  Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.

But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat—­the ardent, voluble chats after the day’s study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions—­ambitions interwoven each with the other’s or else inconsiderable—­the mutual help and inspiration; and—­overlook my artlessness—­stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.

But after a while Art flagged.  It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn’t flag it.  Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say.  Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices.  When one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard.  So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.

For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils.  One evening she came home elated.

“Joe, dear,” she said, gleefully, “I’ve a pupil.  And, oh, the loveliest people!  General—­General A. B. Pinkney’s daughter—­on Seventy-first street.  Such a splendid house, Joe—­you ought to see the front door!  Byzantine I think you would call it.  And inside!  Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.

“My pupil is his daughter Clementina.  I dearly love her already.  She’s a delicate thing—­dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners!  Only eighteen years old.  I’m to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson.  I don’t mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock.  Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let’s have a nice supper.”

“That’s all right for you, Dele,” said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, “but how about me?  Do you think I’m going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art?  Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini!  I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two.”

Delia came and hung about his neck.

“Joe, dear, you are silly.  You must keep on at your studies.  It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else.  While I teach I learn.  I am always with my music.  And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week.  You mustn’t think of leaving Mr. Magister.”

“All right,” said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish.  “But I hate for you to be giving lessons.  It isn’t Art.  But you’re a trump and a dear to do it.”