Thornsen's Élite Restaurant, when Miss Holland, in passing, paused to
observe and wonder. At the same moment, Julien hurrying around the
corner, all but ran her down. She nodded toward the decorator of
sidewalks.

"Isn't he the funny man that you were with the first time I saw you?"

"The very same," responded Julien with twinkling eyes.

"What is he doing?"

"He's one of the few remaining examples of the sidewalk or public-view
school of art."

"Yes, but what does he do it for?"

"His living."

"Do people give him money for it? Do you think I might give him
something?" she asked, looking uncertainly at the artist, who, on hands
and knees and with tongue protruding, was putting a green head on a red
bird, too absorbed even to notice the onlookers.

"I think he'd be tickled pink."

She took a quarter from her purse, hesitated, then slipped it into her
companion's hand.

"_You_ give it to him. I think he'd like it better."