Bob Stuart had come to welcome him. Sitting on the edge of a chair, talking fast and gesticulating with his free hand while he steadied his tea-cup on his knee, he looked all wrong out here. He was practically an uncle and he belonged to another world. He was embarrassing to Blake; he took from the adventure and the new world its exclusive adventurous quality. Still, he had changed. A funny little man with all his ideas coming in rushes, bubbling over in sudden gestures and rapid words, his orange hair had gained a dignity and he was not just an amusing little person. He was unique. After forty-some years of managing to hold his own, Bob had become independent. It was as if he had waked one day and stood in front of the mirror, probably with his stiff hair leaning the wrong way and his nose comically pink and small above the striped pajamas. Perhaps he had suddenly said to himself: “Well, that’s the way I am. What are they going to do about it? I am I. That’s that.” It must have been something like that. At any rate, immediately thereafter other people saw a change in Bob. He had put on a velvet shirt of vivid purple, white Mexican trousers, and brown sandals that exposed his big toes to friends and enemies, and to hell with them. He walked the streets of Santa Fé with his nose up, neither seeking nor shunning mirrors. It was not at all the same old Bob who now shook hands with Blake. “Well, well, well,” he said as the hands went up and down. “And how’s the young rebel?” This was a difficult question. Blake simpered and forgot to say anything. Bob made a benevolent groaning noise and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll outgrow it; you’ll outgrow it. Here, I have another young rebel for you to meet. Teddy! Where has he gone?” “Huh?” Over in the corner some one was prowling about looking at the pictures. He came out of the shadows and stood waiting. “This is Teddy Madden. He ran away from home and came here to find himself and be a genius.” Bob patted Teddy now, in the same fashion. “You must be great friends. Teddy, this boy has just been expelled from school. He’s going to tell us why.” Across the painful benevolence that trembled in the air, the boys looked at each other and took stock. Madden was older. His legs and arms were sure of themselves. But he was not quite grown up; his mouth was not quite sure. “Teddy’s a great artist,” Bob said. “Artists always run away from home, Mary. It’s a law of Nature. Didn’t they tell you that at school?” he asked Blake. “No, sir. They never talk about artists at all.” “Oh, come now.” Bob leaned forward hopefully, with his tirade against modern education all ready in his mouth. “Do you mean to say that you didn’t study Michelangelo?” “But that’s not art,” Blake said, in all sincerity. “That’s Ancient History.” “And that’s an epigram, my son,” said Mary. Madden seemed pleased. “Whether it is or not, it’s a good one,” he said. Very sure of himself, he stood by Mary and handed tea-cups around.