There was an odd significance in the tone of this last speech which caused her to turn quickly and look at him. At that moment Bob’s voice was heard in the hall and, an instant later, he entered the library. One glance at the pair made him aware that he had interrupted a scene of some kind. Esther’s eyes were wet and her manner oddly excited. Her “good evening” was almost perfunctory and she kept looking at her uncle instead of at him. Foster Townsend, also, seemed a little queer. His handshake was as off-hand as usual; Bob never considered it more than a meaningless condescension to the formalities. That there was behind it any real cordiality he doubted. Esther’s uncle could scarcely be expected to love him; that was natural enough, considering whose grandson he was. And there was an occasional tartness or sarcasm in the Townsend speech and a look or two in his direction from the Townsend eyes, which confirmed his suspicion that, although Captain Foster, for some reason, permitted him to call at the mansion, he was far from overjoyed to see him there. To-night--or perhaps he imagined it--the sarcasm was even more in evidence. “Hello, Griffin!” said the captain. “How are you?” Bob thanked him and said that he was well. “That’s good. Painted any more pictures to give away, lately?” Bob smilingly shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “That so? Haven’t sold any either, I suppose?” “No, sir.” “Humph! Kind of dull times in the trade, I should say. Take you a good while to make a million at that rate, won’t it?” “I’m afraid so. But I shall be satisfied with a good deal less than a million.” “So? You aren’t as grasping as some of your family, then.” Bob thought it time to change the subject. He turned to the other member of the trio. “How are you, Esther?” he asked. “Any news since I saw you?” Esther absently replied that there was no news. Her uncle laughed. “She doesn’t mean that, Griffin,” he declared. “There is some news, big news. We were just talking about it when you came in. Weren’t we, Esther?” “Why--why yes, Uncle Foster, we were.” “Yes, we were. Well, I’ll leave you to tell it. Good-night.” He turned toward the hall door. She had not forgotten the look she had seen upon his face that instant when the smiling mask had fallen. It had shown her a little of his real feeling, something of what the sacrifice of her companionship meant to him. She had never loved him as she loved him now. “Oh, don’t go away, Uncle Foster,” she begged. “You’re not going to bed so soon. Stay here with us. We want you to. Don’t we, Bob?” “Certainly, of course,” agreed Bob. Townsend shook his head. “Can’t,” he declared, cheerfully. “I’ve got another letter to write Jane Carter and I want it to go in the morning mail. Good-night, Esther. Good-night, Griffin.” He went out and the door closed. Esther remained standing, looking after him. Bob grinned. Then he drew a long breath.