"I'm getting there," he said to me, one morning, in his studio. "Last year I made thirty-five thousand and this year I'll do better than that. The time is coming soon when I won't have to go around as a sort of drummer for myself. They'll be coming to me and begging me to paint them. I'll do it for six or seven months a year, and, during the remainder of the time, I'll take life easily. My plans are all cut and dried."
"I am glad to hear it, Gordon. You deserve your success. But——"
"Go on," he snapped at me, "I know that everything must be paid for."
"I'm not so sure of that. I was merely about to say that I don't know whether you can be so very sure of being able to take life in such a leisurely way as you hope to."
"Don't you worry, old man," he answered. "I know what's best for me and how to go to work to obtain it."
"I trust you do," I replied. "Well, I'll be going now. See you next Sunday."
"Why next Sunday?" he asked sharply.
"Simply because you've lately acquired the excellent habit of calling on that day."
"I'll not be there," he declared. "I have other fish to fry."
I took my leave, somewhat surprised. But three days later, as we were taking our habitual Sabbatical refection of tea and biscuits, he appeared again, bearing a box of what he calls the only chocolates in New York fit to eat. But he came in a taxi, for he wouldn't be seen carrying anything but his cane and gloves. For a second, as I looked at him, he seemed slightly embarrassed, although I may have erred in so thinking.