* * * * *
Two days later Mr. John Trenton called at the house on Beacon Street.
“Miss Sommerton is not at home,” said the servant. “She is in Canada somewhere.”
And so Mr. Trenton went back to his hotel.
The artist resolved to live quietly in Boston until Miss Sommerton returned. Then the fateful number three could be answered. He determined not to present any of his letters of introduction. When he came to Boston first, he thought he would like to see something of society, of the art world in that city, if there was an art world, and of the people; but he had come and gone without being invited anywhere, and now he anticipated no trouble in living a quiet life, and thinking occasionally over the situation. But during his absence it appeared Boston had awakened to the fact that in its midst had resided a real live artist of prominence from the other side, and nothing had been done to overcome his prejudices, and show him that, after all, the real intellectual centre of the world was not London, but the capital of Massachusetts.
The first day he spent in his hotel he was called upon by a young gentleman whose card proclaimed him a reporter on one of the large daily papers.
“You are Mr. Trenton, the celebrated English artist, are you not?”
“My name is Trenton, and by profession I am an artist. But I do not claim the adjective, ‘celebrated.’”
“All right. You are the man I am after. Now, I should like to know what you think of the art movement in America?”
“Well, really, I have been in America but a very short time, and during that time I have had no opportunity of seeing the work of your artists or of visiting any collections, so you see I cannot give an opinion.”