THE　MODEL　MILLIONAIRE
  UNLESS　one　is　wealthy　there　is　no　use　in　being　a　charming　fellow。
  Romance　is　the　privilege　of　the　rich；　not　the　profession　of　the
  unemployed。　　The　poor　should　be　practical　and　prosaic。　　It　is
  better　to　have　a　permanent　income　than　to　be　fascinating。　　These
  are　the　great　truths　of　modern　life　which　Hughie　Erskine　never
  realised。　　Poor　Hughie！　　Intellectually；　we　must　admit；　he　was　not
  of　much　importance。　　He　never　said　a　brilliant　or　even　an　ill…
  natured　thing　in　his　life。　　But　then　he　was　wonderfully　good…
  looking；　with　his　crisp　brown　hair；　his　clear…cut　profile；　and　his
  grey　eyes。　　He　was　as　popular　with　men　as　he　was　with　women　and　he
  had　every　accomplishment　except　that　of　making　money。　　His　father
  had　bequeathed　him　his　cavalry　sword　and　a　HISTORY　OF　THE
  PENINSULAR　WAR　in　fifteen　volumes。　　Hughie　hung　the　first　over　his
  looking…glass；　put　the　second　on　a　shelf　between　RUFF'S　GUIDE　and
  BAILEY'S　MAGAZINE；　and　lived　on　two　hundred　a　year　that　an　old　aunt
  allowed　him。　　He　had　tried　everything。　　He　had　gone　on　the　Stock
  Exchange　for　six　months；　but　what　was　a　butterfly　to　do　among　bulls
  and　bears？　　He　had　been　a　tea…merchant　for　a　little　longer；　but　had
  soon　tired　of　pekoe　and　souchong。　　Then　he　had　tried　selling　dry
  sherry。　　That　did　not　answer；　the　sherry　was　a　little　too　dry。
  Ultimately　he　became　nothing；　a　delightful；　ineffectual　young　man
  with　a　perfect　profile　and　no　profession。
  To　make　matters　worse；　he　was　in　love。　　The　girl　he　loved　was　Laura
  Merton；　the　daughter　of　a　retired　Colonel　who　had　lost　his　temper
  and　his　digestion　in　India；　and　had　never　found　either　of　them
  again。　　Laura　adored　him；　and　he　was　ready　to　kiss　her　shoe…
  strings。　　They　were　the　handsomest　couple　in　London；　and　had　not　a
  penny…piece　between　them。　　The　Colonel　was　very　fond　of　Hughie；　but
  would　not　hear　of　any　engagement。
  'Come　to　me；　my　boy；　when　you　have　got　ten　thousand　pounds　of　your
  own；　and　we　will　see　about　it；'　he　used　to　say；　and　Hughie　looked
  very　glum　in　those　days；　and　had　to　go　to　Laura　for　consolation。
  One　morning；　as　he　was　on　his　way　to　Holland　Park；　where　the
  Mertons　lived；　he　dropped　in　to　see　a　great　friend　of　his；　Alan
  Trevor。　　Trevor　was　a　painter。　　Indeed；　few　people　escape　that
  nowadays。　　But　he　was　also　an　artist；　and　artists　are　rather　rare。
  Personally　he　was　a　strange　rough　fellow；　with　a　freckled　face　and
  a　red　ragged　beard。　　However；　when　he　took　up　the　brush　he　was　a
  real　master；　and　his　pictures　were　eagerly　sought　after。　　He　had
  been　very　much　attracted　by　Hughie　at　first；　it　must　be
  acknowledged；　entirely　on　account　of　his　personal　charm。　　'The　only
  people　a　painter　should　know；'　he　used　to　say；　'are　people　who　are
  BETE　and　beautiful；　people　who　are　an　artistic　pleasure　to　look　at
  and　an　intellectual　repose　to　talk　to。　　Men　who　are　dandies　and
  women　who　are　darlings　rule　the　world；　at　least　they　should　do　so。'
  However；　after　he　got　to　know　Hughie　better；　he　liked　him　quite　as
  much　for　his　bright；　buoyant　spirits　and　his　generous；　reckless
  nature；　and　had　given　him　the　permanent　ENTREE　to　his　studio。
  When　Hughie　came　in　he　found　Trevor　putting　the　finishing　touches
  to　a　wonderful　life…size　picture　of　a　beggar…man。　　The　beggar
  himself　was　standing　on　a　raised　platform　in　a　corner　of　the
  studio。　　He　was　a　wizened　old　man；　with　a　face　like　wrinkled
  parchment；　and　a　most　piteous　expression。　　Over　his　shoulders　was
  flung　a　coarse　brown　cloak；　all　tears　and　tatters；　his　thick　boots
  were　patched　and　cobbled；　and　with　one　hand　he　leant　on　a　rough
  stick；　while　with　the　other　he　held　out　his　battered　hat　for　alms。
  'What　an　amazing　model！'　whispered　Hughie；　as　he　shook　hands　with
  his　friend。
  'An　amazing　model？'　shouted　Trevor　at　the　top　of　his　voice；　'I
  should　think　so！　　Such　beggars　as　he　are　not　to　be　met　with　every
  day。　　A　TROUVAILLE；　MON　CHER；　a　living　Velasquez！　　My　stars！　what
  an　etching　Rembrandt　would　have　made　of　him！'
  'Poor　old　chap！'　said　Hughie；　'how　miserable　he　looks！　　But　I
  suppose；　to　you　painters；　his　face　is　his　fortune？'
  'Certainly；'　replied　Trevor；　'you　don't　want　a　beggar　to　look
  happy；　do　you？'
  'How　much　does　a　model　get　for　sitting？'　asked　Hughie；　as　he　found
  himself　a　comfortable　seat　on　a　divan。
  'A　shilling　an　hour。'
  'And　how　much　do　you　get　for　your　picture；　Alan？'
  'Oh；　for　this　I　get　two　thousand！'
  'Pounds？'
  'Guineas。　　Painters；　poets；　and　physicians　always　get　guineas。'
  'Well；　I　think　the　model　should　have　a　percentage；'　cried　Hughie；
  laughing；　'they　work　quite　as　hard　as　you　do。'
  'Nonsense；　nonsense！　　Why；　look　at　the　trouble　of　laying　on　the
  paint　alone；　and　standing　all　day　long　at　one's　easel！　　It's　all
  very　well；　Hughie；　for　you　to　talk；　but　I　assure　you　that　there　are
  moments　when　Art　almost　attains　to　the　dignity　of　manual　labour。
  But　you　mustn't　chatter；　I'm　very　busy。　　Smoke　a　cigarette；　and
  keep　quiet。'
  After　some　time　the　servant　came　in；　and　told　Trevor　that　the
  framemaker　wanted　to　speak　to　him。
  'Don't　run　away；　Hughie；'　he　said；　as　he　went　out；　'I　will　be　back
  in　a　moment。'
  The　old　beggar…man　took　advantage　of　Trevor's　absence　to　rest　for　a
  moment　on　a　wooden　bench　that　was　behind　him。　　He　looked　so　forlorn
  and　wretched　that　Hughie　could　not　help　pitying　him；　and　felt　in
  his　pockets　to　see　what　money　he　had。　　All　he　could　find　was　a
  sovereign　and　some　coppers。　　'Poor　old　fellow；'　he　thought　to
  himself；　'he　wants　it　more　than　I　do；　but　it　means　no　hansoms　for　a
  fortnight'；　and　he　walked　across　the　studio　and　slipped　the
  sovereign　into　the　beggar's　hand。
  The　old　man　started；　and　a　faint　smile　flitted　across　his　withered
  lips。　　'Thank　you；　sir；'　he　said；　'thank　you。'
  Then　Trevor　arrived；　and　Hughie　took　his　leave；　blushing　a　little
  at　what　he　had　done。　　He　spent　the　day　with　Laura；　got　a　charming
  scolding　for　his　extravagance；　and　had　to　walk　home。
  That　night　he　strolled　into　the　Palette　Club　about　eleven　o'clock；
  and　found　Trevor　sitting　by　himself　in　the　smoking…room　drinking
  hock　and　seltzer。
  'Well；　Alan；　did　you　get　the　picture　finished　all　right？'　he　said；
  as　he　lit　his　cigarette。
  'Finished　and　framed；　my　boy！'　answered　Trevor；　'and；　by　the　bye；
  you　have　made　a　conquest。　　That　old　model　you　saw　is　quite　devoted
  to　you。　　I　had　to　tell　him　all　about　you　…　who　you　are；　where　you
  live；　what　your　income　is；　what　prospects　you　have　…　'
  'My　dear　Alan；'　cried　Hughie；　'I　shall　probably　find　him　waiting
  for　me　when　I　go　home。　　But　of　course　you　are　only　joking。　　Poor
  old　wretch！　　I　wish　I　could　do　something　for　him。　　I　think　it　is
  dreadful　that　any　one　should　be　so　miserable。　　I　have　got　heaps　of
  old　clothes　at　home　…　do　you　think　he　would　care　for　any　of　them？
  Why；　his　rags　were　falling　to　bits。'
  'But　he　looks　splendid　in　them；'　said　Trevor。　　'I　wouldn't　paint
  him　in　a　frock　coat　for　anything。　　What　you　call　rags　I　call
  romance。　　What　seems　poverty　to　you　is　picturesqueness　to　me。
  However；　I'll　tell　him　of　your　offer。'
  'Alan；'　said　Hughie　seriously；　'you　painters　are　a　heartless　lot。'
  'An　artist's　heart　is　his　head；'　replied　Trevor；　'and　besides；　our
  business　is　to　realise　the　world　as　we　see　it；　not　to　reform　it　as
  we　know　it。　　A　CHACUN　SON　METIER。　　And　now　tell　me　how　Laura　is。
  The　old　model　was　quite　interested　in　her。'
  'You　don't　mean　to　say　you　talked　to　him　about　her？'　said　Hughie。
  'Certainly　I　did。　　He　knows　all　about　the　relentless　colonel；　the
  lovely　Laura；　and　the　10；000　pounds。'
  'You　told　that　old　beggar　all　my　private　affairs？'　cried　Hughie；
  looking　very　red　and　angry。
  'My　dear　boy；'　said　Trevor；　smiling；　'that　old　beggar；　as　you　call
  him；　is　one　of　the　richest　men　in　Europe。　　He　could　buy　all　London
  to…morrow　without　overdrawing　his　account。　　He　has　a　house　in　every
  capital；　dines　off　gold　plate；　and　can　prevent　Russia　going　to　war
  when　he　chooses。'
  'What　on　earth　do　you　mean？'　exclaimed　Hughie。
  'What　I　say；'　said　Trevor。　　'The　old　man　you　saw　to…day　in　the
  studio　was　Baron　Hausberg。　　He　is　a　great　friend　of　mine；　buys　all
  my　pictures　and　that　sort　of　thing；　and　gave　me　a　commission　a
  month　ago　to　paint　him　as　a　beggar。　　QUE　VOULEZ…VOUS？　　LA　FANTAISIE
  D'UN　MILLIONNAIRE！　　And　I　must　say　he　made　a　magnificent　figure　in
  his　rags；　or　perhaps　I　should　say　in　my　rags；　they　are　an　old　suit
  I　got　in　Spain。'
  'Baron　Hausberg！'　cried　Hughie。　　'Good　heavens！　　I　gave　him　a
  sovereign！'　and　he　sank　into　an　armchair　the　picture　of　dismay。
  'Gave　him　a　sovereign！'　shouted　Trevor；　and　he　burst　into　a　roar　of
  laughter。　　'My　dear　boy；　you'll　never　see　it　again。　　SON　AFFAIRE
  C'EST　L'ARGENT　DES　AUTRES。'
  'I　think　you　might　have　told　me；　Alan；'　said　Hughie　sulkily；　'and
  not　have　let　me　make　such　a　fool　of　myself。'
  'Well；　to　begin　with；　Hughie；'　said　Trevor；　'it　never　entered　my