“Do you really mean it?” she gasped. “Do you mean you will go—there—with me? And you won’t say anything to—to him—about—about—”
“Of course I won’t! We’re going to let bygones be bygones, you and I. No more secrets and rows between you and your old uncle, eh? No, no, I guess not. We’ll go down there together; we’ll go this afternoon. And if folks wonder what on earth I am getting so sociable with a Cook for—why, well let ’em wonder, that’s all.”
She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“You are the dearest man in the world!” she declared. “I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am. Do you forgive me, Uncle Foster, really?”
So the reconciliation was complete and the Clark plan had worked satisfactorily so far. But that afternoon, as they walked along the beach together, Esther had no idea of the emotions hidden behind her uncle’s smiling countenance, nor the struggle it cost him to cross the threshold of the Eldridge shanty and meet, with that same smile, the astonished gaze of its young tenant.
Astonishment is a very inadequate word to describe Bob’s feelings when Foster Townsend walked in upon him. He turned pale, then red and involuntarily squared his shoulders for the battle he was certain was upon him. And when, instead of opening for a warlike blast, the Townsend lips curved pleasantly and the Townsend hand was extended in greeting, he was too dumbfounded to do or say anything. He stood still, breathed rapidly, and stared.
Esther, quite aware of what his feelings must be, hastened to explain.
“I have told Uncle Foster all about the portrait,” she said, quickly. “He couldn’t wait until his birthday and made me bring him right down here to see it.... Uncle Foster, you remember Bob. At the horse race that day, he was the one who—”
Townsend interrupted. “Of course I remember,” he said, with a very plausible imitation of heartiness. “How are you, young man? I understand you’ve got to be what they call an artist. Esther says you have painted a picture of her that does everything but walk around and talk. She praised it up so that I had to come and see it for myself. Not that I know much about such things.... This it, eh?... Humph! Well, I declare!”
He had walked over and was standing before the easel. His niece joined him and looked anxiously from his face to the portrait and back again. Griffin, still dazed, looked at his visitors. Foster Townsend whistled.