Seldom, if ever before, had an exhibited portrait attracted so much attention. As Bertram had said, uncounted eyes were watching for it before it was hung, because it was a portrait of the noted beauty, Marguerite Winthrop, and because two other well-known artists had failed where he, Bertram Henshaw, was hoping to succeed. After it was hung, and the uncounted eyes had seen it--either literally, or through the eyes of the critics--interest seemed rather to grow than to lessen, for other uncounted eyes wanted to see what all the fuss was about, anyway. And when these eyes had seen, their owners talked. Nor did they, by any means, all talk against the portrait. Some were as loud in its praise as were others in its condemnation; all of which, of course, but helped to attract more eyes to the cause of it all. For Bertram and his friends these days were, naturally, trying ones. William finally dreaded to open his newspaper. (It had become the fashion, when murders and divorces were scarce, occasionally to “feature” somebody's opinion of the Henshaw portrait, on the first page--something that had almost never been known to happen before.) Cyril, according to Marie, played “perfectly awful things on his piano every day, now.” Aunt Hannah had said “Oh, my grief and conscience!” so many times that it melted now into a wordless groan whenever a new unfriendly criticism of the portrait met her indignant eyes. Of all Bertram's friends, Billy, perhaps not unnaturally, was the angriest. Not only did she, after a time, refuse to read the papers, but she refused even to allow certain ones to be brought into the house, foolish and unreasonable as she knew this to be. As to the artist himself, Bertram's face showed drawn lines and his eyes sombre shadows, but his words and manner carried a stolid indifference that to Billy was at once heartbreaking and maddening. “But, Bertram, why don't you do something? Why don't you say something? Why don't you act something?” she burst out one day. The artist shrugged his shoulders. “But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?” he asked. “I don't know, of course,” sighed Billy. “But I know what I'd like to do. I should like to go out and--fight somebody!” So fierce were words and manner, coupled as they were with a pair of gentle eyes ablaze and two soft little hands doubled into menacing fists, that Bertram laughed. “What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure,” he said tenderly. “But as if fighting could do any good--in this case!” Billy's tense muscles relaxed. Her eyes filled with tears. “No, I don't suppose it would,” she choked, beginning to cry, so that Bertram had to turn comforter. “Come, come, dear,” he begged; “don't take it so to heart. It's not so bad, after all. I've still my good right hand left, and we'll hope there's something in it yet--that'll be worth while.”