It was the artist in him, I said to myself, that wanted a model.
But why not boys of his own class?
The answer suggested itself; boys of his own class could teach him nothing; his own boyhood would supply him with all the necessary information about well-bred youth.
But if he wanted a gutter-snipe in one of his plays, he would have to find a gutter-lad and paint him from life.

That was probably the truth, I concluded.

So satisfied was I with my discovery that I developed it to Gattie; but he would not hear of it.
"Gattie has nothing of the artist in him," I decided, "and therefore cannot understand." And I went on arguing, if Gattie were right, why _two_ boys?
It seemed evident to me that my reading of the riddle was the only plausible one.

Besides it left my affection unaffected and free.

Still, the giggle, the plastered oily hair and the venal leering eyes came back to me again and again in spite of myself..