“They won’t. It’s only an academic discussion on technique.”
“Who is the young one?”
“He’s the ruin of what might have been a big artist.”
“No! Is he? What did it? Drink?”
“Does he look it?”
The window-gazer peered more intently at the debaters below. “It’s a peculiar face. Awfully interesting, though. He’s quite poorly dressed. Does he need money? Is that what’s wrong?”
“That’s it, Bobbie,” returned the Bonnie Lassie with a half-smile. “He needs the money.”
The rampant philanthropist stirred within Miss Roberta Holland’s fatally well-meaning soul. “Would it be a case where I could help? I’d love to put a real artist back on his feet. Are you sure he’s real?”
On the subject of Art, the Bonnie Lassie is never anything but sincere and direct, however much she may play her trickeries with lesser interests, such as life and love and human fate.
“No; I’m not. If he were, I doubt whether he’d have let himself go so wrong.”