"You know that I can't."

"Yes, you can. You have lots of friends--they won't refuse you."

"But I hate to ask them. Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan me
a few pounds--"

"Then go to him," pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped his
protests with a shower of kisses. "Go and get the money, Jack, dear--you
can pay it back when your remittance comes. And we will have such a
jolly day! I am sure you don't want to work."

Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist a
woman's tears and entreaties--least of all when that woman was his
fascinating little wife. A moment later he was in the street, walking
rapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist,
Jimmie Drexell.

"How Diane twists me around her finger!" he reflected ruefully. "I hate
these rows, and they have been more frequent of late. When she is in a
temper, and lets loose with her tongue, she is utterly repulsive. But I
forget everything when she melts into tears, and then I am her willing
slave again. I wonder sometimes if she truly loves me, or if her
affection depends on plenty of money and pleasure. Hang it all! Why
is a man ever fool enough to get married?"

* * * * *

On a corner of the Boulevard St. Michel and a cross street there is a