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 "It is my own child."

"What! I did not know you had ever been married until" Robert paused in awkward confusion.

"Until I made my recent 'fiasco,'" laughed Frost. "Well, whether I have or not, the child's mother died at its birth—that was lucky."

He saw how the others looked at him when he made this heartless speech, so he added:

"You remember those old stony hills of New Hampshire? Well, I was reared there, and perhaps that accounts for so much flint and grit in my make up."

"But mine host," Robert began, "where is the other rare treat you promised—your latest portrait, that wears a hectic flush and nothing more?"

The others, who were listening to the colloquy burst into ripples of merriment.

"Ah, so I did promise," and he seized his glass, and emptied it at a gulp.

A gust of cold mist, mingled with fine snow, puffed into the brilliant rooms, and stirred the stifling air that was saturated with exhalations of spirits and tobacco smoke.

"And you really would like to see my creation—'A Nude Daughter of Our Land.'"