Steven Grant’s main studio, being a sculptor’s, was naturally doomed to the basement of his house. The second-floor den was not precisely a studio, though works of art had been created there. It was a room not quite like a library, yet with plenty of space for books, and books for the space; a room that was a bit larger than a smoking-room, and rather less elegant than a drawing-room; comfortable chairs abounded and cheerful tones prevailed, evidently in complete amity with a pair of dim, priceless tapestries that seemed to know all and pardon all in both furniture and folk. It was a room in which old memories and new conveniences were happy together; a bachelor had somehow managed it so. As years went by, Steven Grant became increasingly glad that the McKim, Mead and White panelling of the late eighties had piously respected the delicate acanthus cornice of the early forties. He often said that he was the only artist in New York whose career had begun and would end under the same roof. You would have taken uncle and nephew for a pair of brothers, one silvery and one golden. Evening dress and the bright decorations emphasized the resemblance. Both men were tall, slender, clean-shaven. Steven Grant carried his sixty years lightly, as artists often do, while Gerald at thirty sometimes showed a seriousness in accord with his honors rather than with his years. His forehead was already higher than his uncle’s; both men chuckled over that, but naturally Uncle Steve’s chuckle was heartier. Gerald slouched a little, after the custom of his generation; this made him seem more _blasé_ than he really was. Steven Grant was straight as a pine tree; this gave him a challenging look that people liked. The ties of blood and their pursuits bound the two together in a harmony that would scarcely have borne out the theories of Shaw, Samuel Butler, and other dispraisers of the Family. That night, they were like a pair of girls in their wish to live the dinner over again, with the added joy of uncensored comment. “We’ll get our golden halters off,” said Uncle Steve, “and browse at our ease.” “Wasn’t Mrs. Storms the limit?” laughed Gerald. “Talk about the immodesty of our maidens! Strikes me, Uncle Steve, your generation is fully as mad as ours.” “Don’t judge all dowagers by one,” urged the other, turning on the light. Gerald stopped short in the midst of a jesting answer, forgetting both maidens and dowagers as he suddenly saw over his uncle’s familiar hearth something he had never seen there before; the cast of a beautiful head, palely tinted. “Why, Uncle Steve,” he cried, “you have it too, that face called Forgiveness!” “Is that its name?” asked Steven Grant quietly.