“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.
“Did YOU know Seaver?” he demanded in obvious surprise.
“I used to SEE him—with Bertram.”
“Oh! Well, he WAS one of them, unfortunately. But Bertram shipped him years ago.”