Lesson Seven  Text
　　The Model Millionaire  (I) Oscar Wilde
　　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 ordinary.
　　It is better to have a permanent income than to be attractive.
　　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 clever or even an ill natured thing in his life.
　　But then he was wonderfully good looking,
　　with his brown hair,his clear-cut face,and his grey eyes.
　　He was as popular with men as he was with women,
　　and he had every quality except that of making money.
　　His father, on his death, had left him his sword
　　and a history of a particular war in fifteen volumes.
　　Hughie hung the first over his looking glass put the second on a shelf,
　　and he lived on two hundred pounds 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 he had soon tired of that.
　　Then he had tried selling dry sherry.
　　That did not answer;the sherry was a little too dry.
　　At last he became nothing,
　　a delightful,useless young man with a perfect face and no profession.
　　To make matters worse,he was in love.
　　The girl he loved was Laura Merton,
　　the daughter of a former army officer
　　who had lost his temper and his health in India,
　　and never found either of them again.
　　Laura loved him and he was ready to kiss her shoestrings.
　　They were the handsomest couple in London,
　　and had not a penny between them.
　　Her father 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 miserable in those days,
　　and had to go to Laura for comfort.
　　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 are not nowadays.
　　But he was also an artist,and artists are rather rare.
　　Personally he was a strange, rough fellow,
　　with a freckled face and red, rough 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 admitted,entirely on account of his personal charm.
　　"The only people a painter should know,"he used to say,
　　"are people who are beautiful,
　　people who are an artistic pleasure to look at,and restful to talk to.
　　Men who are well dressed
　　and women who are lovely 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,cheerful spirits,
　　and his generous, careless nature,
　　and had asked him to come to his studio whenever he liked.
　　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 room.
　　He was a wizened old man with a wrinkled face and a sad expression.
　　Over his shoulder was thrown a rough brown coat,all torn and full of holes;
　　his thick boots were old and patched;
　　and with one hand he leant on a rough stick,

　　while with the other he held out his battered hat for money.
　　"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 are not met with every day.Good heavens!
　　What a picture Rembrandt would have made of him!"
　　"Poor old fellow!"said Hughie, "How miserable he looks!
　　But I suppose, to you painters, his face is valuable. "
　　"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.
　　"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 doctors 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 in front of the picture!
　　It's easy, Hughie, for you to talk,
　　but I tell you
　　that there are moments when art almost reaches the importance of manual work.
　　But you mustn't talk;I'm very busy.
　　Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.
　　"After some time the servant came in,
　　and told Trevor that the frame maker 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 momenton a wooden seat that was behind him.
　　He looked so miserable that Hughie pitied him
　　and felt in his pockets to see what money he had.
　　All he could find was a pound and some pennies.
　　"Poor old fellow,"he thought to himself,"he wants it more than I do,
　　but I shan't have much money myself for a week or two";
　　and he walked across the studio
　　and slipped the pound into the beggar's hand.
　　The old man startled,and a faint smile passed across his lips.
　　"Thank you, sir,"he said, "thank you."
　　Then Trevor arrived,and Hughie left,
　　blushing a little at what he had done.
　　He spent the day with Laura,
　　was charmingly blamed for giving away a pound,and had to walk home.