The other woman laid a hand upon her canes, and then, as if this were an instinctive movement, yet not to be undertaken hurriedly, smiled and sat still, awaiting them. When they were at the steps, she spoke in an exceedingly pleasant voice. It deepened the effect of her great gentleness. "I'm sure I don't know. Come right up and tell me." They mounted the steps together, and Stark put out his hand. Mrs. Grant studied him for a moment. Light broke over her sweet old face. "It's Billy Stark," she said. "Of course it is," triumphed the other old lady. "Billy Stark come back from foreign parts as good as new. Now let's sit down and talk it over." They drew their chairs together, and, smiles and glances mingling, went back over the course of the years, first with a leap to the keen, bright time when they were in school together. The type of that page was clear-cut and vivid. There were years they skipped then, and finally they came to the present, and Billy said,-- "You have two grandsons?" "Yes. One lives with me. The other is coming home to-morrow. He's the painter." "Engaged to Electra," added Madam Fulton. "Did you know that? They are to be married this summer. Then I suppose he'll go back to Paris and she'll go with him." Mrs. Grant was looking at her with a grave attention. "We hope not," she said, "Osmond and I. Osmond hopes Peter will settle here and do some work. He thinks it will be best for him." "There's no difficulty about his getting it," said Billy. "I saw his portrait of Mrs. Rhys. That was amazing." The grandmother nodded, in a quiet pleasure. "They said so," she returned. "It will do everything for him." "It has done everything. Osmond says he has only to sit down now and paint. But he thinks it will be best for him to do it here--at least for a time." "How in the world can Osmond tell before he sees him?" objected Madam Fulton. "You haven't set eyes on Peter for five years. He may be Parisian to the backbone. You wouldn't want to tie him by the leg over here." "So Osmond says. But he hopes he won't want to go back." "I can tell him one thing," said the other old lady; "he'd better make up his mind to some big centre, Paris or New York, or he won't get Electra. Electra knows what she wants, and it isn't seclusion. She is going to be the wife of a celebrated painter, and she'll insist on the perquisites. I know Electra."