But it was not funny; it was serious. Was this glorious gift on parenthood to which he had looked forward as the crowning joy of his existence, to be nothing but a tragedy that would finally wreck his domestic happiness? It could not be. It must not be. He must be patient, and wait. Billy loved him. He was sure she did. By and by this obsession of motherhood, which had her so fast in its grasp, would relax. She would remember that her husband had rights as well as her child. Once again she would give him the companionship, love, and sympathetic interest so dear to him. Meanwhile there was his work. He must bury himself in that. And fortunate, indeed, he was, he told himself, that he had something so absorbing. It was at this point in his meditations that Bertram rounded a corner and came face to face with a man who stopped him short with a jovial: “Isn't it--by George, it is Bertie Henshaw! Well, what do you think of that for luck?--and me only two days home from 'Gay Paree'!” “Oh, Seaver! How are you? You _are_ a stranger!” Bertram's voice and handshake were a bit more cordial than they would have been had he not at the moment been feeling so abused and forlorn. In the old days he had liked this Bob Seaver well. Seaver was an artist like himself, and was good company always. But Seaver and his crowd were a little too Bohemian for William's taste; and after Billy came, she, too, had objected to what she called “that horrid Seaver man.” In his heart, Bertram knew that there was good foundation for their objections, so he had avoided Seaver for a time; and for some years, now, the man had been abroad, somewhat to Bertram's relief. To-night, however, Seaver's genial smile and hearty friendliness were like a sudden burst of sunshine on a rainy day--and Bertram detested rainy days. He was feeling now, too, as if he had just had a whole week of them. “Yes, I am something of a stranger here,” nodded Seaver. “But I tell you what, little old Boston looks mighty good to me, all the same. Come on! You're just the fellow we want. I'm on my way now to the old stamping ground. Come--right about face, old chap, and come with me!” Bertram shook his head. “Sorry--but I guess I can't, to-night,” he sighed. Both gesture and words were unhesitating, but the voice carried the discontent of a small boy, who, while the sun is still shining, has been told to come into the house. “Oh, rats! Yes, you can, too. Come on! Lots of the old crowd will be there--Griggs, Beebe, Jack Jenkins, and Tully. We need you to complete the show.” “Jack Jenkins? Is he here?” A new eagerness had come into Bertram's voice. “Sure! He came on from New York last night. Great boy, Jenkins! Just back from Paris fairly covered with medals, you know.” “Yes, so I hear. I haven't seen him for four years.” “Better come to-night then.” “No-o,” began Bertram, with obvious reluctance. “It's already nine o'clock, and--”