That evening, when Esther came down to supper, it seemed to her that her uncle was in far better humor than he had been for some time. During the past week he had been somewhat taciturn and grumpy. She suspected that matters connected with the lawsuit might not be progressing to his satisfaction, but when she asked he brusquely told her that was all right enough, so far as it went, although it went almighty slow. Then her suspicions shifted and she began to fear that, perhaps, he did not like Bob’s calling so frequently. He had never offered objections to the calls, greeted the young man pleasantly and usually left the pair together for the greater part of the evening. Nevertheless--or so she fancied--his greetings were a trifle less hearty now than they had been at first. And, on the morning following Griffin’s most recent call, he said something at the breakfast table which was disturbing. She had thought of it many times since. “Well,” he observed, after the maid had left them together, “how is the great picture painter these days? Getting to be a pretty regular visitor, isn’t he? Coming again Tuesday night, I suppose? Eh?” Esther, taken by surprise, colored and hesitated. “Why--why, I don’t know, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “He didn’t say he was.” “Didn’t need to, perhaps. Probably thought you might take it for granted by this time. Tuesdays and Fridays on his calendar seem to be marked with your initials. Those other young chaps who used to drop in here once in a while appear to have sheered off. I wonder why.” Esther looked at him. He was smiling, so she smiled also. “If you mean George Bartlett,” she said. “He has gone back to Boston. His vacation is over. And Fred Winthrop is--well, I don’t know why he doesn’t come, I am sure. I don’t like him, anyway.” “Perhaps he guessed as much. You do like this Griffin, I take it.” Esther had ceased to smile. “Why, yes, I do,” she declared. “I told you I did. He is a nice boy and I do like him. But, Uncle Foster, I don’t see why you speak this way. If you think--” “There, there!” rather testily. “I said, in the beginning, that I wasn’t going to think anything. You and I agreed that we wouldn’t have any secrets from each other, so why should I think?” “You shouldn’t. Uncle Foster, if you don’t want Bob to come here--” “Sshh! I told you he could come--if he didn’t come too often.” “So you do think he is coming too often?” “I didn’t say so. I was just wondering what his grandfather might be thinking about it. He has told the old man, of course?” He had not and Esther knew it. Bob had announced his intention of telling his grandfather of his friendship with Foster Townsend’s niece, but he had put off the telling, waiting, he said, for a favorable opportunity. Townsend, keenly scrutinizing the girl’s face, read his answer there.