rtram knew that he had failed. Neither as a work of art, nor as a
likeness, was the portrait the success that Henshaw's former work would
seem to indicate that it should have been. Indeed, as one caustic pen
put it, if this were to be taken as a sample of what was to follow--then
the famous originator of "The Face of a Girl" had "a most distinguished
future behind him."

Seldom, if ever before, had an exhibited portrait attracted so much
attention. As Bertram had said, uncounted eyes were watching for it
before it was hung, because it was a portrait of the noted beauty,
Marguerite Winthrop, and because two other well-known artists had failed
where he, Bertram Henshaw, was hoping to succeed. After it was hung, and
the uncounted eyes had seen it--either literally, or through the eyes
of the critics--interest seemed rather to grow than to lessen, for other
uncounted eyes wanted to see what all the fuss was about, anyway. And
when these eyes had seen, their owners talked. Nor did they, by any
means, all talk against the portrait. Some were as loud in its praise as
were others in its condemnation; all of which, of course, but helped to
attract more eyes to the cause of it all.

For Bertram and his friends these days were, naturally, trying ones.
William finally dreaded to open his newspaper. (It had become the
fashion, when murders and divorces were scarce, occasionally to
"feature" somebody's opinion of the Henshaw portrait, on the first
page--something that had almost never been known to happen before.)
Cyril, according to Marie, played "perfectly awful things on his piano
every day, now." Aunt Hannah had said "Oh, my grief and conscience!"
so many times that it melted now into a wordless groan whenever a new
unfriendly criticism of the portrait met her indignant eyes.

Of all Bertram's friends, Billy, perhaps not unnaturally, was the
angriest. Not only did she, after a time, refuse to read the papers,
but she refused even to allow certain ones to be brought into the house,
foolish and unreasonable as she knew this to be.

As to the artist himself, Bertram's face showed drawn lines and his eyes
sombre shadows, but his words and manner carried a stolid indifference
that to Billy was at once heartbreaking and maddening.

"But, Bertram, why don't you do something? Why don't you say something?
Why don't you act something?" she burst out one day.

The artist shrugged his shoulders.

"But, my dear, what can I say, or do,