To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was Laura
Merton, the daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temper
and his digestion in India, and had never found either of them
again. Laura adored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoe-strings.
They were the handsomest couple in London, and had not a penny-piece
between them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie, but would not
hear of any engagement.

'Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your
own, and we will see about it,' he used to say; and Hughie looked
very glum in those days, and had to go to Laura for consolation.

One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertons
lived, he dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor.
Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few people escape that nowadays. But
he was also an artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally he
was a strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and a red ragged
beard. However, when he took up the brush he was a real master, and
his pictures were eagerly sought after. He had been very much
attracted by Hughie at first, it must be acknowledged, entirely on
account of his personal charm. 'The only people a painter should
know,' he used to say, 'are people who are bete and beautiful,
people who are an artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual
repose to talk to. Men who are dandies and women who are darlings
rule the world, at least they should do so.' However, after he got
to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his bright,
buoyant spirits and his generous, reckless nature, and had given him
the permanent entree to his studio.