PETE
Bertram Henshaw had no disquieting forebodings this time concerning his portrait of Marguerite Winthrop when the doors of the Bohemian Ten Club Exhibition were thrown open to members and invited guests. Just how great a popular success it was destined to be, he could not know, of course, though he might have suspected it when he began to receive the admiring and hearty congratulations of his friends and fellow-artists on that first evening.
Nor was the Winthrop portrait the only jewel in his crown on that occasion. His marvelously exquisite ``The Rose,'' and his smaller ideal picture, ``Expectation,'' came in for scarcely less commendation. There was no doubt now. The originator of the famous ``Face of a Girl'' had come into his own again. On all sides this was the verdict, one long-haired critic of international fame even claiming openly that Henshaw had not only equaled his former best work, but had gone beyond it, in both artistry and technique.
It was a brilliant gathering. Society, as usual, in costly evening gowns and correct swallow-tails rubbed elbows with names famous in the world of Art and Letters. Everywhere were gay laughter and sparkling repartee. Even the austere-faced J. G. Winthrop unbent to the extent of grim smiles in response to the laudatory comments bestowed upon the pictured image of his idol, his beautiful daughter.
As to the great financier's own opinion of the work, no one heard him express it except, perhaps, the artist; and all that he got was a grip of the hand and a ``Good! I knew you'd fetch it this time, my boy!'' But that was enough. And, indeed, no one who knew the stern old man needed to more than look into his face that evening to know of his entire satisfaction in this portrait soon to be the most recent, and the most cherished addition to his far-famed art collection.
As to Bertram--Bertram was pleased and happy and gratified, of course, as was natural;but he was not one whit more so than was Bertram's wife. Billy fairly radiated happiness and proud joy. She told Bertram, indeed, that if he did anything to make her any prouder, it would take an Annex the size of the Boston Opera House to hold her extra happiness.
``Sh-h, Billy! Some one will hear you,''
protested Bertram, tragically; but, in spite of his horrified voice, he did not look displeased.
For the first time Billy met Marguerite Winthrop that evening. At the outset there was just a bit of shyness and constraint in the young wife's manner. Billy could not forget her old insane jealousy of this beautiful girl with the envied name of Marguerite. But it was for only a moment, and soon she was her natural, charming self.
Miss Winthrop was fascinated, and she made no pretense of hiding it. She even turned to Bertram at last, and cried:
``Surely, now, Mr. Henshaw, you need never go far for a model! Why don't you paint your wife?''
Billy colored. Bertram smiled.
``I have,'' he said. ``I have painted her many times. In fact, I have painted her so often that she once declared it was only the tilt of her chin and the turn of her head that I loved--to paint,'' he said merrily, enjoying Billy's pretty confusion, and not realizing that his words really distressed her. ``I have a whole studio full of `Billys' at home.''
``Oh, have you, really?'' questioned Miss Winthrop, eagerly. ``Then mayn't I see them?
Mayn't I, please, Mrs. Henshaw? I'd so love to!''
``Why, of course you may,'' murmured both the artist and his wife.
``Thank you. Then I'm coming right away.
May I? I'm going to Washington next week, you see. Will you let me come to-morrow at--at half-past three, then? Will it be quite convenient for you, Mrs. Henshaw?''
``Quite convenient. I shall be glad to see you,'' smiled Billy. And Bertram echoed his wife's cordial permission.
``Thank you. Then I'll be there at half-past three,'' nodded Miss Winthrop, with a smile, as she turned to give place to an admiring group, who were waiting to pay their respects to the artist and his wife.
There was, after all, that evening, one fly in Billy's ointment.
It fluttered in at the behest of an old acquaintance--one of the ``advice women,'' as Billy termed some of her too interested friends.
``Well, they're lovely, perfectly lovely, of course, Mrs. Henshaw,'' said this lady, coming up to say good-night. ``But, all the samee{sic}, I'm glad my husband is just a plain lawyer. Look out, my dear, that while Mr. Henshaw is stealing all those pretty faces for his canvases--just look out that the fair ladies don't turn around and steal his heart before you know it. Dear me, but you must be so proud of him!''
``I am,'' smiled Billy, serenely; and only the jagged split that rent the glove on her hand, at that moment, told of the fierce anger behind that smile.
``As if I couldn't trust Bertram!'' raged Billy passionately to herself, stealing a surreptitious glance at her ruined glove. ``And as if there weren't ever any perfectly happy marriages--even if you don't ever hear of them, or read of them!''
