Well, what do you think of
that for luck?--and me only two days home from 'Gay Paree'!"

"Oh, Seaver! How are you? You _are_ a stranger!" Bertram's voice and
handshake were a bit more cordial than they would have been had he not
at the moment been feeling so abused and forlorn. In the old days he had
liked this Bob Seaver well. Seaver was an artist like himself, and was
good company always. But Seaver and his crowd were a little too Bohemian
for William's taste; and after Billy came, she, too, had objected to
what she called "that horrid Seaver man." In his heart, Bertram knew
that there was good foundation for their objections, so he had avoided
Seaver for a time; and for some years, now, the man had been abroad,
somewhat to Bertram's relief. To-night, however, Seaver's genial smile
and hearty friendliness were like a sudden burst of sunshine on a rainy
day--and Bertram detested rainy days. He was feeling now, too, as if he
had just had a whole week of them.

"Yes, I am something of a stranger here," nodded Seaver. "But I tell you
what, little old Boston looks mighty good to me, all the same. Come on!
You're just the fellow we want. I'm on my way now to the old stamping
ground. Come--right about face, old chap, and come with me!"

Bertram shook his head.

"Sorry--but I guess I can't, to-night," he sighed. Both gesture and
words were unhesitating, but the voice carried the discontent of a small
boy, who, while the sun is still shining, has been told to come into the
house.

"Oh, rats! Yes, you can, too. Come on! Lots of the old crowd will be
there--Griggs, Beebe, Jack Jenkins, and Tully. We need you to complete
the show."

"Jack Jenkins? Is he here?" A new eagerness had come into Bertram's
voice.

"Sure! He came on from New York last night. Great boy, Jenkins! Just
back from Paris fairly covered with medals, you know."

"Yes, so I hear. I haven't seen him for four years."

"Better come to-night then."

"No-o," began Bertram, with obvious reluctance. "It's already nine
o'clock, and--"

"Nine o'clock!" cut in Seaver, with a broad grin. "Since when has your
limit been nine o'clock? I've seen the time when you didn't mind nine
o'clock in the morning, Bertie! What's got--Oh, I remember. I met
another friend of yours in Berlin; chap named Arkwright--and say, he's
some singer, you bet! You're going to hear of him one of these days.
Well, he told me all about how you'd settled down now--son and heir,
fireside bli