"Uh-huh," says I. "And, believe me, Brooksy is some paint slinger; that is, fine feelin', darin' technic, all that sort of dope." "I see," says he, noddin' his head. "Holding a sale, is he? On one of the upper floors?" "Top," says I. "Quite a classy little studio joint he's made up there." "Oh, he has, has he?" says the old boy, snappin' his eyes. "Well, of all the confounded--er--young man, ring that bell!" Say, how was I goin' to know? I was beginnin' to suspect that this chatty streak of mine wa'n't goin' to turn out lucky for someone; but it's gone too far to hedge. I pushes the button, and in comes the butler. "Tupper," says the old man, glarin' at him shrewd, "you know where the top-floor studio is, don't you?" "Ye-e-es, Sir," says Tapper, almost chokin' over it. "You'll find Mr. and Mrs. Bladen there," goes on old Grouchy. "Ask them to step down here for a moment at once." Listened sort of mussy from where I sat, and I wa'n't findin' the armchair quite so comf'table. "Guess I'll be loafin' along," says I, casual. "You'll stay just where you are for the present!" says he, wheelin' himself across the door-way. "Oh, well, if you insist," says I. He did. And for two minutes there I listens to the clock tick and watches the old sport's white whiskers grow bristly. Then comes the Bladens. He waves 'em to a parade rest opposite me. "What is it, Uncle Jeff?" says Mrs. Bladen, sort of anxious. And with that I begins to piece out the puzzle. This was Uncle Jeff, eh, the one with the bank account? "So," he explodes, like openin' a bottle of root beer, "you've gone back to your paint daubing, have you? And you're actually trying to sell your namby-pamby stuff on my top floor? Come now, Edith, let's hear you squirm out of that!" Considerable fussed, Edith is. No wonder! After one glance at me she flushes up and begins twistin' the yellow silk cord nervous; but nothin' in the way of a not guilty plea seems to occur to her. As for Hubby, he blinks them mild eyes of his a couple of times, and then stands there placid with both hands in the pockets of his velvet coat, showin' no deep emotion at all. "It's so, isn't it?" demands Uncle. "Ye-e-es, Uncle Jeff," admits Edith. "But poor Brooks could do nothing else, you know. If he'd taken a studio outside, you would have wanted to know where he was. And those rooms were not in use. Really, what else could he do?" "Mean to tell me he couldn't get along without puttering around with those fool paints and brushes?" snorts Uncle Jeff. "It--it's his life work, Uncle Jeff," says Mrs. Bladen. "Rubbish!" says the old boy. "In the first place, it isn't work. Might be for a woman, maybe, but not for an able-bodied man. You know my sentiments on that point well enough. In the second place, when I asked you two to come and live with me, there was no longer any need for him to do that sort of thing. And you understood that too." Edith sighs and nods her head.