frequently than William; but Cyril was not seen there so often. He came
once at first, it is true, and followed Billy from room to room as she
proudly displayed her new home. He showed polite interest in her view,
and a perfunctory enjoyment of the tea she prepared for him. But he
did not come again for some time, and when he did come, he sat stiffly
silent, while his brothers did most of the talking.

As to Calderwell--Calderwell seemed suddenly to have lost his interest
in impenetrable forests and unclimbable mountains. Nothing more
intricate than the long Beacon Street boulevard, or more inaccessible
than Corey Hill seemed worth exploring, apparently. According to
Calderwell's own version of it, he had "settled down"; he was going
to "be something that was something." And he did spend sundry of his
morning hours in a Boston law office with ponderous, calf-bound volumes
spread in imposing array on the desk before him. Other hours--many
hours--he spent with Billy.

One day, very soon, in fact, after she arrived in Boston, Billy asked
Calderwell about the Henshaws.

"Tell me about them," she said. "Tell me what they have been doing all
these years."

"Tell you about them! Why, don't you know?"

She shook her head.

"No. Cyril says nothing. William little more--about themselves; and you
know what Bertram is. One can hardly separate sense from nonsense with
him."

"You don't know, then, how splendidly Bertram has done with his art?"

"No; only from the most casual hearsay. Has he done well then?"

"Finely! The public has been his for years, and now the critics
are tumbling over each other to do him honor. They rave about his
'sensitive, brilliant, nervous touch,'--whatever that may be; his
'marvelous color sense'; his 'beauty of line and pose.' And they quarrel
over whether it's realism or idealism that constitutes his charm."

"I'm so glad! And is it still the 'Face of a Girl'?"

"Yes; only he's doing straight portraiture now as well. It's got to be
quite the thing to be 'done' by Henshaw; and there's many a fair lady
that has graciously commissioned him to paint her portrait. He's a fine
fellow, too--a mighty fine fellow. You may not know, perhaps, but three
or four years ago he was--well, not wild, but 'frolicsome,' he would
probably have called it. He got in with a lot of fellows that--well,
that weren't good for a chap of Bertram's temperament."

"Like--Mr. Seaver?"

Calderwell turned sharply.

"D