Bertram knew that however secure might seem Billy's affection for himself, there was still in his own mind a horrid fear lest underneath that security were an unconscious, growing fondness for something he could not give, for some one that he was not--a fondness that would one day cause Billy to awake. As Bertram, in his morbid fancy pictured it, he realized only too well what that awakening would mean to himself. CHAPTER XXIV. THE ARTIST AND HIS ART The private view of the paintings and drawings of the Brush and Pencil Club on the evening of the fifteenth was a great success. Society sent its fairest women in frocks that were pictures in themselves. Art sent its severest critics and its most ardent devotees. The Press sent reporters that the World might know what Art and Society were doing, and how they did it. Before the canvases signed with Bertram Henshaw's name there was always to be found an admiring group representing both Art and Society with the Press on the outskirts to report. William Henshaw, coming unobserved upon one such group, paused a moment to smile at the various more or less disconnected comments. “What a lovely blue!” “Marvellous color sense!” “Now those shadows are--” “He gets his high lights so--” “I declare, she looks just like Blanche Payton!” “Every line there is full of meaning.” “I suppose it's very fine, but--” “Now, I say, Henshaw is--” “Is this by the man that's painting Margy Winthrop's portrait?” “It's idealism, man, idealism!” “I'm going to have a dress just that shade of blue.” “Isn't that just too sweet!” “Now for realism, I consider Henshaw--” “There aren't many with his sensitive, brilliant touch.” “Oh, what a pretty picture!” William moved on then. Billy was rapturously proud of Bertram that evening. He was, of course, the centre of congratulations and hearty praise. At his side, Billy, with sparkling eyes, welcomed each smiling congratulation and gloried in every commendatory word she heard. “Oh, Bertram, isn't it splendid! I'm so proud of you,” she whispered softly, when a moment's lull gave her opportunity. “They're all words, words, idle words,” he laughed; but his eyes shone. “Just as if they weren't all true!” she bridled, turning to greet William, who came up at that moment. “Isn't it fine, Uncle William?” she beamed. “And aren't we proud of him?” “We are, indeed,” smiled the man. “But if you and Bertram want to get the real opinion of this crowd, you should go and stand near one of his pictures five minutes. As a sort of crazy--quilt criticism it can't be beat.” “I know,” laughed Bertram. “I've done it, in days long gone.” “Bertram, not really?” cried Billy. “Sure! As if every young artist at the first didn't don goggles or a false mustache and study the pictures on either side of his own till he could paint them with his eyes shut!” “And what did you hear?” demanded the girl.