Tom’s example was followed by Robert Macpherson, but Godfrey sat still in his chair. Mrs. Rogers did not mean him, of course. She knew he never would harm any woman, and he was not going to promise not to see Gertie Westbrooke, and talk to her, too, as much as he liked. But it was a good thing to snub that drunken Tom Barton, who was half-intoxicated now, and he felt like cheering Mrs. Rogers, and meant to stay after the others were gone, and tell her so. But Robert Macpherson meant to stay, too, and, after waiting impatiently ten or fifteen minutes, Godfrey arose at last and said good-afternoon, wondering within himself why “Bob would stick himself where he was not wanted.” Robert had business with Mrs. Rogers, and, when alone with her, he began at once by assuring her that so far as he was concerned she had nothing to fear for Gertie. “And you will know you have not,” he continued, “when I tell you that she is the very image of the only sister I ever had,—the little girl who died when just Gertie’s age, and of whom I never think without a throb of pain.” It was this wonderful likeness, he said, which first attracted him to Gertie, and made him so desirous for her portrait, as he had none of his sister. And then he went on to tell how fond he was of his profession as an artist, and that as there were so many fine views in the vicinity of Hampstead, he wished to remain there for a time, sketching and studying the autumnal scenery, and, as he would not of course stay at Schuyler Hill, he wished to rent a room in some quiet house, and take his meals at the hotel. Had Mrs. Rogers such a room, and would she let it to him for a liberal compensation? Mrs. Rogers was in need of money. Her own health was not good, and Gertie’s education and music would cost so much that Robert’s offer was a tempting one, and she considered it for a few moments, and then said yes, and showed him the large, pleasant room where Abelard Lyle’s coffin had stood, and where, within a few days, easels, and pallets, and brushes, and paint were scattered about promiscuously; for Robert had taken possession, and dubbed the room his “Den,” and was going to paint “_La Sœur_” from Gertie’s face, and then retouch from his memory of his sister. Mary Rogers had struck a powerful blow for Gertie, and hedged her round with the respect of the young men, who otherwise might have turned her head as she grew to womanhood, with all her wondrous beauty and fascinating sweetness, but for a time she felt some misgivings as to the propriety of having taken Robert Macpherson as a lodger. But when she saw how quiet and unobtrusive he was, never seeking either herself or her child, unless he needed them for the sittings, her watchfulness gradually subsided, and she felt that her home was pleasanter for having the artist there.