“Then why don't they look at those, and let this alone?” wailed Billy, with indignation.
“Because I deliberately put up this for them to see,” smiled the artist, wearily.
Billy sighed, and twisted in her chair.
“What does—Mr. Winthrop say?” she asked at last, in a faint voice.
Bertram lifted his head.
“Mr. Winthrop's been a trump all through, dear. He's already insisted on paying for this—and he's ordered another.”
“Another!”
“Yes. The old fellow never minces his words, as you may know. He came to me one day, put his hand on my shoulder, and said tersely: 'Will you give me another, same terms? Go in, boy, and win. Show 'em! I lost the first ten thousand I made. I didn't the next!' That's all he said. Before I could even choke out an answer he was gone. Gorry! talk about his having a 'heart of stone'! I don't believe another man in the country would have done that—and done it in the way he did—in the face of all this talk,” finished Bertram, his eyes luminous with feeling.
Billy hesitated.
“Perhaps—his daughter—influenced him—some.”