"One of our national institutions is the `Hen's Mutual Fire Insurance
Company,' supported by the Government," added Clifford.

Deschamps snorted.

"That is why," put in Rhodes, lazily dabbing at his canvas, "why we
seldom have omelets -- the eggs are so apt to be laid fried."

"How, zen, does eet make ze chicken?" spluttered the Frenchman, his
wrath rising.

"Our chickens are also -- " a torrent of bad language from Monsieur
Deschamps, and a howl of execration from all the rest, silenced
Clifford.

"It's too hot for that sort of thing," pleaded Elliott.

"Idiot!" muttered the Frenchman, shooting ominous glances at the
bland youth, who saw nothing.

"C'est l'heure," cried a dozen voices, and the tired model stretched
his cramped limbs. Clifford rose, dropped a piece of charcoal down on
his neighbor's neck, and stepping across Thaxton's easel, walked over
to Gethryn.

"Rex, have you heard the latest?"

"No."

"The Ministry has fallen again, and the Place de la Concorde is