In Friendships Guise | Page 3

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
brasserie beloved of artists and art students, and slightly more popular
with them than similar institutions of the same ilk in the Latin Quarter.
Here, one hazy October evening, nine months after Mr. Von Whele's
hurried departure from Paris, might have been found Jack Clare.
Tête-à-tête with him, across the little marble-topped table, was his
friend Victor Nevill, whom he had known in earlier days in England,
and whose acquaintance he had recently renewed in gay Paris. Nevill
was an Oxford graduate, and a wild and dissipated young man of Jack's
age; he was handsome and patrician-looking, a hail-fellow-well-met
and a favorite with women, but a close observer of character would
have proclaimed him to be selfish and heartless. He had lately come
into a large sum of money, and was spending it recklessly.
The long, low-ceilinged room was dim with tobacco smoke, noisy with
ribald jests and laughter. Here and there the waitresses, girls
coquettishly dressed, tripped with bottles and syphons, foaming bocks,

and glasses of brandy or liqueurs. The customers of the brasserie were a
mixed lot of women and men, the latter comprising' numerous
nationalities, and all drawn to Paris by the wiles of the Goddess of Art.
Topical songs of the day succeeded one another rapidly. A group of
long-haired, polyglot students hung around the piano, while others
played on violins or guitars, which they had brought to contribute to the
evening's enjoyment. At intervals, when there was a lull, the click of
billiard balls came from an adjoining apartment. Out on the boulevard,
under the glaring lights, the tide of revelers and pleasure-seekers
flowed unceasingly.
"I consider this a night wasted," said Jack. "I would rather have gone to
the Casino, for a change."
"It didn't much matter where we went, as long as we spent our last
evening together," Victor Nevill replied. "You know I leave for Rome
to-morrow. I fancy it will be a good move, for I have been going the
pace too fast in Paris."
"So have I," said Jack, wearily. "I'm not as lucky as you, with a pot of
money to draw on. I intend to turn over a new leaf, old chap, and you'll
find me reformed when you come back. I've been a fool, Nevill. When
my mother died last February I came into 30,000 francs, and for the last
five months I have been scattering my inheritance recklessly. Very little
of it is left now."
"But you have been working?"
"Yes, in a sort of a way. But you can imagine how it goes when a
fellow turns night into day."
"It's time you pulled up," said Nevill, "before you go stone broke. You
owe that much to your wife."
He spoke with a slight sneer which escaped his companion.
"I like that," Jack muttered bitterly. "Diane has spent two francs to my
one--or helped me to spend them."

"Such is the rosy path of marriage," Nevill remarked lightly.
"Shut up!" said Jack.
He laughed as he drained his glass of cognac, and then settled back in
his seat with a moody expression. His thoughts were not pleasant ones.
Since the early part of the year he and his wife had been gradually
drifting apart, and even when they were together at theatres or
luxurious cafes, spending money like water, there had been a restraint
between them. Of late Diane's fits of temper had become more frequent,
and only yielded to a handful of gold or notes. Jack had sought his own
amusements and left her much alone--more than was good for her, he
now reflected uneasily. Yet he had the utmost confidence in her still,
and not a shadow of suspicion had crossed his mind. He believed that
his honor was safe in her care.
"I have wished a thousand times that I had never