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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 t