Fairfax and His Pride: A Novel

by Marie Van Vorst

"Garcon," he ordered, "fetch two bocks. Yes, mademoiselle, it will do you good."

"I say," she fluttered, "were you lonely over there in your corner?"

Fairfax nodded. She put out her little hand, stained with paint and oil, and it was cold and delicate as it touched his. It seemed to need the strength of the man's big, warm grasp.

"I have always liked your face, do you know—always," she said. "I knew that you could be a real pal if you wanted. You are not like the others. I expect you are a great swell at something. Writing?"

"No, I am a workman in Barye's studio—a sculptor."

"Oh," she said incredulously. "You look 'arrivé,' awfully distinguished. I expect you really are something splendid."

The beer came foaming. The girl lifted her glass with a hand which trembled. Tears hung on her lashes still, ready to fall, but she was a little sport and full of character and life. She nodded at Fairfax and murmured—

"Here's to our being friends."

Her voice was sweet and musical. They drank the draught to friendship.