When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to
a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar himself
was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He was
a wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and a most
piteous expression. Over his shoulders was flung a coarse brown
cloak, all tears and tatters; his thick boots were patched and
cobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough stick, while with the
other he held out his battered hat for alms.

'What an amazing model!' whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with
his friend.

'An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; 'I
should think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with every
day. A trouvaille, mon cher; a living Velasquez! My stars! what an
etching Rembrandt would have made of him!'

'Poor old chap!' said Hughie, 'how miserable he looks! But I
suppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?'

'Certainly,' replied Trevor, 'you don't want a beggar to look happy,
do you?'

'How much does a model get for sitting?' asked Hughie, as he found
himself a comfortable seat on a divan.

'A shilling an hour.'

'And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?'