He went to Portland the next day. Kenneth met him as he was coming home from the boat. "We missed you, old man," said Kenneth. "Gwen and I thought maybe you'd like a trip to Birch Island or somewhere. It's pretty sharp, but we shouldn't mind that. We were both saying that it would be harder to leave you than anybody or anything else." He put his hand affectionately on the older man's shoulder. "I am thinking of spending part of my winters in Washington where Gwen will be. Life is too short for us to waste it apart, if it can be avoided. Say, old man, why don't you come too? It would do you good to get into the world again. Why not come down and see the White House?"
Mr. Williams shook his head. "I've been here too long in my shell. I shouldn't know how to stand a city, now. You would be ashamed of your old fisherman."
"Not a bit of it. You'd soon fall into the old ways, for I know well enough you've been a city man."
"Yes," answered Mr. Williams slowly, "I've been a city man." Then, after a pause, "Do you expect to settle in Washington eventually? Perhaps, if you do, you'd be willing some time to take in an old fellow who'd be ready to bear up his end of the householder's burden. It might make that studio apartment come a little sooner."
"New York is the only place where I could make my bread and butter, I'm afraid," returned Kenneth. "My mother will be living there, and I shall put my pride in my pocket—who wouldn't for such a girl as Gwen?—and shall hope for a mad rush for my pictures from the moneyed friends of my new papa. Wouldn't New York suit you as well?"
"Never New York, never—" said Mr. Williams with intensity.
"Too bustling and noisy after this beautiful silence, isn't it? Still it is about the best place for an artist. What city would you suggest, if we didn't take New York into consideration?"
"Paris maybe, or somewhere abroad would suit me."
"Paris sounds seductive. We'll have to talk this scheme over, we three. It's good of you to think of it, dear old man. I know what you have in mind, and that is only the happiness of us two. You're the best friend I ever had. By the way, you told me once you had been married, that your wife died years ago. Were there any children?"
"There was a boy—a little fellow. He lived only a week. I think of him sometimes when I am talking to you. He would have been about your age. I can't tell you what I felt at losing him. The parental feeling is pretty strong in me, and I grieved terribly for that little week old baby. I grieve yet. Things might have been different if he had lived. He would have been an anchor I could not have cut loose from. As it was—well, it's a long time ago. One cannot alter the past."