“Rather! Another S,” contemptuously replied a very young man, seated, smoking a very long pipe before a very indifferent canvas.
“What do you mean, Bubbles?” asked a by-stander.
“What, haven’t you noticed,” he answered, with ineffable disdain, swinging his arm in illustration, “that the lines of his compositions are all curly—they always make S?”
“I thought they always made £ s. d.,” interjected a curly-headed wag. And all except the very young man laughed.
“Bubbles is gone on Whistler,” observed a freckle-faced student, compassionately.
“I admire him,” admitted the very young man, candidly, “but I don’t say he’s the end of art.”
“No; that’s reserved for Bubbles,” laughed the freckle-faced student.
“What is the end of art, Bubbles?” said another man.
“T, of course,” put in the curly-headed wag. “Five o’clock and fashionable.”
“I say, Grainger says Miss Hennery used to work in his day class,” said a handsome young Irishman, strolling up with a bag of cakes, from which the model had just helped herself in the pervasive spirit of camaraderie.