stroke.

"Six o'clock, and working still!" cried the intruder. "You will
keep the paint market active, if you achieve nothing else as an
artist."

"Heigho! Ik, is that you?" said he of the palette, good-naturedly;
and rising slowly he gave a lingering look at his work, then turned
and greeted his friend with the quiet cordiality of long and familiar
acquaintance. "What a marplot you are with your idle ways!" he
added. "Sit down here and make yourself useful for once by doing
nothing nothing for ten minutes. I am in just the mood and have
just the light for a bit of work which perhaps I can never do as
well again," and the artist returned promptly to his picture.

In greeting his friend he had revealed that he was above middle
height, that he had full black eyes that were not only good for
seeing, but could also, if he chose, give great emphasis to his
words, and at times be even more expressive. A thick mustache
covered his lip, but the rest of his face was cleanly shaven, and
was strong and decided in its outlines rather than handsome.

"They say a woman's work is never done," remarked Ik Stanton, dropping
into the easiest chair in the studio, "and for this reason, were
there no other, your muse is evidently of the feminine persuasion.
I also admit that she is a lady of great antiquity. Indeed I would
place her nearer to the time when 'Adam delved and Eve span' than
to the classic age."

"My dear Ik," responded the artist, "I am often at a loss to know